The Beach at Scopello

I am standing on a balcony overlooking the sea. There’s a man in my room, someone I just met and that’s not like me, so I’m standing out on the balcony hoping the salty air brings me to my senses. It doesn’t seem to be working. I go back inside to find him sifting through the vinyl collection next to a record player. The records are not mine and mostly in Italian, so I say nothing as he chooses one and it starts to spin, playing an old-style song I don’t recognize. 

He stands to smile at me. It’s a friendly, sexy smile that shows off his straight white teeth, framed by full bow shaped lips, under a strong Roman nose. His almond shaped brown eyes are a little large for his face, framed by heavy, black eyelashes that soften his defined jawline, giving him an approachable, almost boyish charm.

He speaks English, but as my eyes trace over him I continue to stay silent. I really don’t know what to say. Looking at him I feel we are mismatched. He is beautiful, there’s no doubt about it, and a few years younger than me, or at least in much better shape. He’s impossible not to admire. He’s 6’2, and in comparison I feel very small—but he has a tender way about him despite his size. Tall, dark and handsome, the trilogy of cliches. 

“You could have anyone.” I blurt out, immediately embarrassed.

“I know.” He chuckles lightly then throws a purposely goofy grin with an eye roll that relaxes me a little. It’s hard to describe but something about him puts me at ease.

This is really not me, though. I don’t do this. I’m not the type to bring a strange man I’ve just met back to my room. I’m not the type to suddenly quit my long-term job either, even though I only took it because everyone thought I should. I am definitely not the type to leave for Italy without telling anyone. Not even my mother.

I didn’t tell my boyfriend of 10 years either, but that’s okay, there was stuff he wasn’t telling me, too.

Heading down to that beach bar tonight I didn’t know what I was looking for. A drink? A man? A lover? I was looking for something. I’d only been with one person my whole life. I wanted that to change. I was afraid but feeling bold. I’d never really been out on my own before. I was making new rules. 

The little beach bar was set up by some locals. They had erected about 10 folding chairs down by the water’s edge. Someone was playing Italian pop music through a small Bluetooth speaker. I had watched them setting up from my hotel balcony, saw them wheeling down what looked like a portable gelato cart. My interest piqued, I went to investigate only to discover the cart wasn’t for gelato, but rather they had filled it with ice and half buried a few prosecco bottles and other bottles of alcohol.

The ‘barman’ only spoke Italian and made me a drink without me asking and wouldn’t take any money so I assumed it was maybe a party I had accidentally invaded. No one seemed to mind. I took the drink I was handed and another man enthusiastically directed me to sit on one of the seats, so I did, enjoying the ocean and watching around half a dozen more people arrive. 

I was reasonably relaxed, listening to the excited Italian chatter, sipping my pink spritz concoction, when a particular man caught my attention. He was standing very casually, resting one elbow on the cart, chatting with the other man serving drinks. He kept glancing and smiling in my direction and it became a one-sided tennis match, his eyes meeting mine and me quickly turning away, shyly, only to turn and catch his eyes again. 

After a few minutes he came over to me, bent down and took my hand. He looked at me, his eyes gentle but intense and launched into Italian, like he was reciting a poem. He kept gesturing towards the flourishing moon. When he finished he looked at me expectantly and I was deeply regretful that I had no idea what he had said.  

But instead of being upset at my confession he laughed and confirmed in thickly accented English that he was indeed reciting a poem about the moon.

“Che guardi la luna che mancata, non è viva, è fiato, non è fiato, è mia, e niente la trattiene, è via… You, luna venuta, luna velata, dove… Bella signorina,” he tried to explain.

I guffawed at the over the top romantic gesture—

“I’m sorry—where I’m from men don’t recite women poetry,” I explained.

“They should, yes?”

“Oh I agree. Write us poetry. Sing us love songs.” I said this laughing because it sounded ridiculous and he laughed too, but for a different reason. 

“Il romanticismo e la vita. Romance is life, yes?” 

I nodded, his sincerity charming me. It was then I realized he was still holding my hand. 

“Americana?” he asked, playing with my fingers.

“No,” I replied, before telling him my name was Julia, which was neither the truth nor a lie, but a variation. 

He replied with his name but it was uncommon and hard to pronounce, something similar to Aurelio. He asked me why I was in Sicily and with the truth being too personal and far too complicated I simply replied I was on holiday because the warmth of his hand holding mine, those long, languid lashes, and his moist pink lips had made my heart flutter, sending tiny bolts of electricity peppering down my spine towards the opening of my sex. 

When his body was close enough I could smell the sea intermingling with light smelling soap and was grateful it wasn’t Aqua Di Gio but his actual skin. My hand had gripped his a little tighter and as he began to use his other hand to trace the bony part of my wrist, I found myself telling him my room was just there, pointing to the hotel above the beach. He took this as an invitation, pulling me to my feet and walking me, our hands still entwined, along the beachfront and up to my little room.

~~~

The adrenaline and romance I felt down at the bar is wearing off. Now I’m uncertain, uncomfortable in my jeans and wishing I was wearing something sexy, like those off the shoulder, white cotton dresses you see influencers wearing on Instagram in their Italian vacation photos. I decide to fake confidence—what would someone sexy do? I’d watched the movie Malena just before I came here so I think: what would Monica Bellucci do? I want to channel that effortlessly sensual creature, conjure lusty glances with a casual hip sway and the wetting of lips, able to stiffen even the most neatly pressed pants. 

Instead, my self-consciousness infects me and I move over to my bag on the nightstand, retrieving a cigarette and a lighter to keep myself busy.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” I ask.

“It’s bad for you.”

“I know.” I pause for a moment. “But it makes me feel horny, having something in my mouth.” My attempt at seduction makes me feel silly, so I ramble.

“I don’t smoke actually. Not really. But I heard that everyone in Europe does so…” My voice trails off. The room is small, but a breeze blows through the open French doors breathing life into it. I take a deep breath. It breathes life into me, too.

I change my mind about the cigarette and toss it and the lighter back onto the nightstand before sitting down on the bed in front of him.

“Let’s try something else,” he says. 

I glance up at him and see he is watching me, his hands resting on his hips casually. Then he undoes his belt, then pants, and slips them down. Sitting on the bed he pulls them off over his ankles and kicks them across the floorboards. Standing again he removes his white t-shirt in one movement revealing a wide, muscular frame. His tan is betrayed by a small peak of whiter skin visible just above his underwear line. I notice again how broad his shoulders are. The light spattering of dark hair on his chest matches the styled full head of curls on his head. 

He stands in front of me, his groin at eye level, his V line muscles highlighting his hips and pelvis. I want to rip off that last piece of thin cotton modesty and take his cock in my mouth, but I hesitate, and a part of my brain starts to panic but I know I don’t want him to leave. I want him. I want this. 

“You really are beautiful.” I stutter clumsily.

He kneels before me, his strong hands reaching. He holds my feet, like he held my hand, gently caressing then massaging my toes and feet. When I don’t protest his hands get bolder and start up my calves, squeezing my thighs.

“Why are you here with me?” I exhale heavily.

“I’m here because I want you.” His hands begin to stroke my upper thighs, opening them very slightly. His hands then move under my armpits, and he lifts me up the bed so he can kneel between the soft skin of my thighs. He moves his hands to my hips. 

“Why, though,” I ask, wishing I could be in the moment and just shut up. 

“Because you are beautiful and from the moment I saw you I wanted to know what you taste like.”

He slides his fingers inside the waistband of my jeans and pulls me up towards him, the movement is the answer I need. He is as strong as he looks. It catches me slightly off guard and I relax, letting him take control. Then he pulls down my zipper and a sudden electric warmth floods my groin.

The rush of arousal is so quick that for a moment I panic that I’ve peed and almost laugh at myself realizing it’s just my body responding to his touch, the feel of his skin on mine. He pulls my pants over my knees and then off altogether, separating my legs again, and lying between them. I can feel he is already hard. He pushes slightly against me, and my heartbeat drops from my chest to my pubic bone. 

My mind quiets and my breathing changes as he kisses my mouth hard. I don’t want to control myself anymore. I want to feel free—so I squeeze him tightly between my thighs and automatically thrust upwards. He breaks the kiss with a surprised laugh before pulling me up effortlessly, him kneeling and my legs wrapped around him. One of his hands clasps my ass while the other holds the back of my head gently, fingers twisted in my hair. He kisses me hard again and I respond by kissing him back harder, my tongue pushing his lips wide apart. Ever so softly I start to bite his bottom lip and when he withdraws I use both my hands to grab the sides of his lightly stubbled face, pulling him back to me. I suck on his bottom lip instead this time then slide my warm tongue back inside his mouth. My hips rock against him, the opening of my vulva dripping, wet and hungry for him to enter.

As our breathing becomes shallow and desperate, his hands shift to my thigh and upper back before carefully lying me back down. He pulls my t-shirt off over my head and without pausing reaches around my back, unhooking my bra. Dropping his head hungrily he engulfs my left nipple with his hot mouth, tongue thrusting and sucking, making me let out a tiny moan. This invites him to grasp the other breast in his hand before again licking and sucking my hard nipple. His hands busy again he breaks contact to lift me by my hips but only to remove my panties. 

The second I hit the mattress he buries his face between my legs but instead of devouring me he pauses a moment, licking his index and middle finger before almost tenderly spreading my labia. Running his thumb along his moist tongue he locates my swollen clitoris easily. He moves his thumb back and forth with heavy pressure before quickly replacing it with his tongue that he begins flicking with short, light strokes. They are too light and I cry out in frustration, again thrusting my hips up, my opening now desperate and aching to feel the full length of his hard cock pushing deep inside me. 

I pull myself away and sit up grabbing his underwear. I almost tear them off him, like a woman possessed, and when he falls back down on top of me I feel his bodyweight and the tip of his bulging cock at the entrance of my cunt. I want him to enter the whole way, I want to feel his raw skin inside me, the surging warmth of his cum pulsing into me—but suddenly he stops. Jumping from the bed he half runs to his jeans on the floor and retrieves a condom. A part of me is disappointed but I know I’ll be relieved later. 

He tears it open with his teeth before unrolling it over his pink, erect cock and without pause pushes my open legs even wider and thrusts his whole self the entire depth of my vagina. His cock is thick and makes me gasp on entry. I clutch at his back as he only pulls out the smallest margin before thrusting again, slow and deep. It aches just right and I grab the back of his ass trying to pull him in deeper but he’s already hitting the wall, already filling me completely. Then comes the faster, more frantic, pumping thrusts that make it feel like he’ll break right through me. My moans are desperate, I don’t want it to stop, but can’t take it continuing. I dig my teeth into his shoulder and he pulls out, flipping me over onto my knees before entering me again from behind. 

He hits my g-spot and my whole body explodes in loud shuddering moans and my vagina contracts violently, making him rear up, grabbing one shoulder with one hand and pulling my head back by my hair with the other. Three more deep thrusts and he moans too. I feel his warm cum fill the condom and again wish it wasn’t there but that’s just how it is. As his breathing steadies he lets go of my hair and loosens his grip on my shoulder, his arms wrapping around my body keeping me close, strong hands clamped to my breasts. 

We sit, upwardly spooning for a few more minutes, while we catch our breath before he starts to withdraw. He collapses on the bed and I go to pee, taking the used rubber with me, discarding it in the bin. I take my time in the bathroom and when I come out he’s already asleep. His soft snoring doesn’t bother me and I watch him for a little while, this Adonis carved from red hot marble, sent to me from who knows where.

I can’t sleep so I put on some clothes and walk down to the little rocky beach at Scopello, to sit on the white sand. It’s deserted, the sea hardly visible in the dark but I can hear the waves gently crashing. 

During the day this beach, described by Homer in the final stage of Odyssey, is rocky and dramatic, steep cliffs and pronounced, jutting sea stacks encircle it. But the soft kiss of its blue water stretches all the way to the horizon. It cannot be contained. The first few rays of daylight begin to creep over the ocean, and I know it doesn’t really matter if he’s there when I go back or not. All that matters is that I feel free, and I like it.