Mambo Italiano

8 Mar

There was a time that I allowed myself to be seduced by an Italian man named Massimo.  I was in my early twenties, living in the Back Bay area of Boston and attending school.  My friend was dating an Italian named Carlo who was a jazz pianist with good hair and a bad attitude.  One fateful evening, I went with her to see Carlo’s jazz ensemble play at the Lenox Hotel.  I was instantly attracted to Massimo (the drummer), so I stuck around for drinks with them after the show.  He had cute facial hair, a shaved head, some sort of agreeable sweater situation…and he barely spoke any English.  Or maybe he did and I just couldn’t understand him.  The only thing I could make out that he kept repeating over and over throughout the night was “It’s-a because of the chianti!”  When he started getting very forward with his hands, when he knocked over the artisanal cheese platter, when he whispered in my ear to come back to his place- it was all because of the chianti.  He happened to live right across the street from my school and I had my rape whistle, so I figured going to his apartment for another drink couldn’t hurt.

My memory becomes fuzzy at that point, but I do recall a consensual tussle that escalated to the point where both of us landed on the floor- sending sheets, focaccia, and wine flying into the air.  “DIO MIO!” Massimo cried as chianti dripped down his face and through his ample chest hair.  I thanked him for introducing me to the charm of a good Italian (uh, wine) and left him in a befuddled puddle.

That was the first and last I saw of young Massimo, but I emailed him last year after hearing that he also lives in Brooklyn now.  He responded that he is still playing music and lives in Williamsburg with his girlfriend.

Break my heart why don’t ya, Massimo.

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