THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part Two - I - II

PART TWO

I

Before you get the wrong idea about me, I want to make it clear that I usually don't pay for sex. Women have always liked me, so I've never had to pay for it. Last night I turned a blind eye because technically I didn't pay (my friends did), but it was a one-off thing. Anyway, I feel a bit disgusted with myself. I was lucky to have gotten together with Valda. Was there really a need to go to a seedy nightclub in the lower town to get a blowjob from a whore who probably wasn't even eighteen? On the other hand, it wouldn't have been nice to abandon my buddies after they had gone to so much trouble.

I wake up at noon, completely wrecked and with a pounding headache, drinking water and lemon juice, fresh juices, and smoothies all day to detox and recover from last night's excesses.

In the mid-afternoon, I decide to make a quick trip to Scandiano. I go down the steps from my wing of the villa to the garden we call the "little wood," with no reference to sexual symbolism, and suddenly feel something squishy under the sole of my right shoe—damn, I've stepped in another one. I mean one of the poops from Lapo, my cousin's dog... and Michelle's.

You should know that the happy ending I imagined for my novel Tromba Daria unfortunately isn't true. My cousin Berto actually married Michelle. He managed to, thanks to his persistence, which apparently is a family flaw. A year ago, Berto and his "diva" adopted this German shepherd, poor thing. I say that because they keep it chained all day, "otherwise it runs away," which is probably true, but it still makes me feel very sorry for the poor dog that nobody pays attention to. Never once have I seen them pet him, I swear. They got him as a guard dog, and filling its bowls and picking up its poop is left to the servants—god forbid the model couple lower themselves to pick up their dog's shit, how unseemly. So when the staff is late in removing the droppings, the driveway becomes a minefield. And I'm careless, damn it.

So, I go back inside and change my shoes. Leaving the house, I almost crash head-on into a van, the Amazon courier, who speeds down the driveway to the gate raising a hell of a dust storm.

"There's a package for Marchioness Torbelli Mozzi," announces Jeff Bezos's emissary from the window.

"Just leave it by the gate."

After the marriage, Michelle gave up—or in her case, abdicated—from the role of diva and took on the mantle of marchioness. Naturally, she flaunts her acquired title obsessively, and I've heard that in society she always introduces herself as "the Marchioness Torbelli Mozzi." She even wrote "marchioness" on the Amazon courier's delivery form. If she could, I believe she would tattoo the title on her forehead.

I hit the road, pass the village, and at the crossroads, I head towards Scandiano.

Driving on the country road that connects the hamlet to the town center, I spot a girl walking alone by the roadside, casting fearful glances at the cars whizzing by at a hundred kilometers an hour.

"Do you need a ride?" I ask, slowing down and rolling down the window. "Go on, go!" the girl snaps, vicious as ever.

She must think I'm a maniac. In Emilia, you see, chivalry is dead. Just opening a car door for a girl makes you look overeager. If you have the audacity to offer a ride to a stranger, forget it, you're automatically a psychopath. It must be because of all the thriller and crime series on TV. If a poor guy so much as speaks to them, the poor girls immediately think he's a serial killer.

Arriving on Viale Mazzini, I turn left into Piazza Spallanzani, park under the statue of the scientist without bothering to get a parking ticket, and walk under the arcades to my friend Rosario's café.