Tuscany is everything you hoped it would be. Rolling Mediterranean hills lined with cypress trees, acres and acres of vineyards, delightful architecture and arts, marketplaces that are a feast for the senses, cuisine to die for, and sunny, cool weather that is as yummy to your skin as the food is to your tongue. You remind yourself again that Charles, your boyfriend of two years, is bankrolling this entire vacation. That kind of financial freedom is important, right? Yesterday at the crafts museum you saw an antique vase that you fell in love with, and Charles didn’t blink at the cost. He said, “It’s beautiful! You’ve got great taste.” And out came his Euros and the vase got wrapped for shipping home. Money does matter—a lot—and it’s going to matter more as you get older. Right?
This evening, you and Charles are dining under a lovely wooden pavilion with little colored lights decorating the eaves and rafters. On the small stage, a stringed orchestra is playing tango music and though it’s not a part of tonight’s scheduled dance performance, some of the locals are very good. Tango dancing is so sexy! The whole setting is romantic as hell and -- exactly as you expected -- Charles has gone down on one knee to propose marriage to you.
The crowd has hushed. Even some of the dancers have stopped to watch. No pressure on you.
You’re gazing down at his hopeful face. Charles Beaumont. Corporate tax lawyer. Harvard-educated. Brilliant intellectual. Knows a Monet from a Manet. A steadfast and good-hearted man. But sometimes you worry that he’s a bit too steadfast. As in, rather predictable, as in, even a bit boring. Will marriage to him mean decades of a relationship that offers no real surprises? Everything exactly as expected?
But if you’re concerned that Charles is not as exciting as you’d like a lover to be, why are you, one of the last of the true bohemians, a globe-trotting vagabond, a ceramics artist and teacher, lover of wonders and surprises—why are you saying “Yes”? And don’t blame it on the crowd, although they do clap and cheer when Charles stands and embraces you, lifting you off your feet.
Why? Because you’re in your mid-thirties and the wealth and dependability of Charles Beaumont, esquire, seems safe and secure.
The restaurant owner comes to the table to personally congratulate the happy couple. He gives you a free bottle of some cheap wine, and Charles good-heartedly accepts it, then orders bottles of a much better vintage for everyone at the dozen tables of the outdoor restaurant. More cheers.
You’re smiling and trying to keep up with the conversation at the table, but some compartment of your brain is musing about how you’ve chosen safety and security over thrills. You’re not sure you’ve done the right thing, and you’re already wondering if there’s a graceful way to back out of the commitment of marriage you’ve just made.
A man on stage announces in Italian and then in English that tonight’s flamenco performance is about to begin. It’s a moonless night and beyond the festive lights of the pavilion, the dark is like a black velvet curtain. The dancers, a woman and man, and two guitarists, seem to step into the light from out of nowhere. As soon as their fancy boots hit the wooden dance floor, the staccato heel clicks of flamenco begin. The guitarists are handed down chairs from the stage and they begin a furious strumming and picking to accompany the dancers at floor level.
You know from having already read the program notes that the male dancer, from Madrid, is twenty-one. His name is Viro, a name so macho it made you chuckle, until you laid eyes on him. Wow! He’s stunningly good-looking, with shoulder-length coal-black hair and dark green eyes. You’re not sure if he’s wearing mascara or he really does have eyelashes that gorgeous. He’s wearing a deep purple silk blouse with ruffles down the chest and puffy sleeves, over black leather pants with hammered silver studs up the sides, and a crotch so tight you can clearly make out the big head of his cock.
The woman dancing with him is more handsome than pretty, with thick hair pulled to one side that falls to her round hips like black ink. She’s wearing a floor-length crimson dress that resembles a giant rose that tightly embraced her body before its petals exploded into bloom. The back of the dress is cut almost to her waist and muscles ripple under her brown skin as she moves.
But you catch her only in glimpses because Viro has you transfixed. He’s gazing right into your eyes. Right into you.
You’re thinking, “Why me? There are younger, prettier women here. It can’t be because he knows I’m a tourist, half the crowd are tourists.” His dark green eyes never veer away. Your panties feel damp. “God, does he know he’s making me wet?” And when he flashes a brilliant smile you know he knows. The connection feels electric, and the charge is coursing vertically from your crotch to your crown.
Charles squeezes your hand under the table. Then he slides his hand up your dress and touches your panties. Now that was surprising! And now he knows, too.
You turn to him, but he’s looking straight ahead at the dancers. He just gives a little nod and takes his hand away. Is he feeling jealous? He just proposed marriage to you and now your pussy is getting all slippery for a beautiful young Spaniard. Now you can smell yourself. Ah, the Mediterranean Sea! The fragrance blends nicely with the bowl of mussels on the table.
You reach for your wine glass and gulp it down in one long swig. Charles doesn’t seem to be upset. Not outwardly, anyway. You’re not sure what’s going on. Can Charles smell your pussy, too?
You’re so distracted by the oddness of the moment that you don’t notice the performance is over until the crowd applauds and shouts, “Bravo! Bravissimo!”
And in the next instant, Viro is at your table. He seats himself without invitation, like he is the master of this world, this moonless night in Tuscany. Charles shakes his hand and congratulates him in flawless Castilian. Viro’s smell is not subtle: a mix of male sweat and leather and cigarette smoke and something sweet—not perfume—that it takes you another minute to identify. Cloves. He smokes the clove cigarettes you saw at the market; the ones with the flamenco dancer on the package. Ha. Perfect.
The strings on stage begin a foxtrot and couples get up from their seats to dance.
“May I to dance with you?” Viro says, eyes boring into you, not asking your fiancé’s permission. You look to Charles, feeling embarrassed for him. You are his bride-to-be, you remind yourself. You don’t want this young machismo stud to snub him. No, you’re not going to dance with him. You want no part of this.
“Sure. Go for it, honey.” Charles says with an easy smile. “Have fun.”
You give him a look like, “Are you crazy?” And then he practically pulls your chair out from under you.
“Dance your heart out,” he says, and gently shoves you toward Viro.
On the dance floor, Viro wraps a strong arm around you, his hand planted broadly on your low back, and then glides you around like you’ve practiced the foxtrot together for months. He’s so good on his feet, following his lead is just a matter of relaxing your body into his and letting him move you wherever he chooses. Up close, the sweet smell of clove cigarette smoke and musky man-in-heated-leather combines with the wine that’s gone to your head; it’s almost enough to make you swoon.
When the dance is through, you start back toward the table where Charles is watching, pantomiming applause. Viro grabs your hand and spins you back toward him; he’s not going to let you get away. As if you’re his woman, his property. You’re considering how much of a scene it’s going to make if you say, “How dare you!” or even give him a hard slap, when a slow-tempo melody begins, and a woman steps up to the mike to sing in Italian. You don’t understand the lyrics, but the mood is unmistakably lovelorn; she’s crying to the music.