Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Hai Fatto Una Spremuta Di Me!

A long long time ago, when I was still a virgin—yes THAT long ago, I met a boy from Arkansas.
We went on a ‘date’. To the movies I think.
At the close of the evening, he walked me to my door, stood with his hands folded in front of his crotch and in a syrupy Razorback accent politely asked:
"Ma’am, may I have the honor of kissing your lips?"

And we kissed.

He pulled back, wiped his brow with the back of his hand and let out a holler that sounded like, ‘Sou-wee!’ then said,
"Ma’am, you are just like salted peanuts. Or Lay’s Potato Chips."

"What do you mean?" I asked, unsure whether I was being insulted or not.

"You can’t just eat one. Once you open the bag, you gotta finish em all!"

Albeit odd yet sweet, I found it to be the funniest reaction any man had ever verbalized to me.
Until today.

Direct from Italy to my red velvet sofa in New York, he is pure Italian from the Lake Como area.
On my feet are silver spike heeled shoes that he requested when making his appointment during that long-distance call.
"They please-a me very much." He tells me as we sit.

Just barely noon, twenty minutes into his visit and already together we have polished off the first bottle of wine. Neither of us have had breakfast prior.
I've studied Italian in the past. Even was able to get myself and Philip G. through Italy.
But now, sitting vertically, all my former knowledge has abandoned me.
We struggle through the conversation using simple words.

"I am-a happy. I am-a happy I-a came here."

"You are? I’m glad. I’m happy you came here too. What took you so long?"

"I-a don know. I-a don know. I see-a you-a website for a long-a time. Intimidated, may-a be?"

"Of ‘little me’?"

"Is difficult-a to say."

"I’m sorry my Italian isn’t better. It used to be but somehow—"

"Is-a no too bad."

"You're kind. I have an idea."
Leaning in to him, I meet his lips with mine.

Oh my god!

Oh my god can he kiss!
Our touching mouths become the only moment of existence.
Softly our lips, our tongues listen and converse. His kiss sends chills through my flesh.
Slowly, we break. Eyes remain closed. Feel his breath, the tip of his nose on mine, his forehead leaning on mine.

He speaks first in a whisper:
"Si. Si. You are right. Is-a best to speak-a in the Universal language."

Once in the bedroom, he allows himself to become my sensual prisoner.
Swaying to the music of Madeline Peyroux, our eyes close as I let my fingernails only memorize and trace every cell of skin on his body until goosebumps form and a shiver breaks his erect frame.
Lying on the bed, he on his back, me on my knees between his legs, we repeat it all over again from forehead to toes.

"Geisha? You-a are an artiste-a. An artiste-a. No one has-a ever touched-a me like-a dis."
I smile, eyes still lightly closed.
"What a lovely thing to say."
After this, we speak in words no more.

Finally, when he has come to the brink several times and I can feel his body can take no more, I slide the condom down his shaft with my mouth.

Turning the bottle of oil upside down, I watch the drops roll from the tip of his cock down his balls to my other hand that acts as a funnel. The oil races down my palm to my middle finger, it’s tip lodged lightly at the entrance to his bottom.
My left hand softly strokes his shaft as my right middle finger gently dips the oil into him.
Eyes closed, fingers like antennae, the heat in his groin begins to boil.
It’s time.
I want him on top of me.

We fit.

Sometimes it is a fit. The chemistry is potent. The passion escalates. From deep within, even through the latex, I feel the urgent pumping of his insistent explosion.
He falls on top of me peppering my face, my neck, my shoulders with loving and oddly grateful kisses.
Suddenly he straightens his arms, curving his back up, locking his elbows and cries out in Italian:
"Hai fatto una spremuta di me!"

I laugh so hard my vaginal muscles shoot his cock right out of me.
"What did you say?"

"Hai fatto una spremuta di me!"

He laughs. I am hysterical. He says it again.
"Hai fatto una spremuta di me!"

I am convulsing so hard no sound is coming out.

"Hey. You-a comprendo?"

"Si! Si! Comprendo!"

"What I say?"

Catching my breath, I answer,
"You said, You Made a Juice out of me! Hai fatto una spremuta di me! Ha!"

We laugh until it dies by itself and we lay side-by-side, panting, catching our breath.

"You-a know what-a I think?"

"Che cosa?"

"I-a think-a, you learn Italian when-a you are in love."


"Because-a, when you are laying, you understand, but-a when-a you sit up, boom, it all-a falls down and you don-a remember any more."

"E vero. I learn everything horizontally and si, when I am vertical, boom, it all falls down."

At the door, we kiss again.


"No. Molto Grazie. I think that was the most delicious response any man has ever said to me. I will never forget it."

And so he left.
And all day, know matter who I saw, or what adventure we played out, I had to stifle a giggle as the phrase
Hai fatto una spremuta di me!’ kept playing in my head.

And in my little ‘artiste-a’ heart.


At 10:53 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

molto divertente! Luciano


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