As I’ve mentioned before, I have a penchant for accents. If you have an accent, the likelihood of me humping your leg increases exponentially.
Summer 2011 I met a guy named Paolo. He was from Italy, but had been living in the states for some time. He was covered head to toe in tattoos. As if this didn’t make him sexy enough, he was really fun and funny. Not to mention the accent.
Good chance he would be “in” as well, if he wanted. (wink, wink)
Unfortunately, we met the day before he was leaving to go to Nebraska for work for a month. We did some light texting and talked about meeting up at a music festival when he was back in town in mid-July.
July rolled around and I found myself at Pitchfork music festival. I texted him to ask if he was at the festival, but I never received a response so I figured he wasn’t interested.
Or had died.
I went with dead. Most likely hit by a bus. Brains and bones and guts splayed against the hot cement.
That sounds about right.
So two months go by and summer is fading into fall. There is a bite in the air and the smell of pumpkin on my breath.
I fucking love pumpkin.
Like, obsessed. Seriously. That shit is good. That Peter was onto something. He probably couldn’t keep his wife because he didn’t share his pumpkin with her. If my husband didn’t share his pumpkin with me, I would refuse to share my pumpkin with him (yet another wink). Then after months of that, I’d kill him in his sleep.
Seriously, why is pumpkin only featured in the fall? I mean, apart from the whole “in season” thing. Annoying.
Anyway, I get a random text from Paolo apologizing for being incommunicado, explaining he had gone back to Italy for three months. He was back now and hoping we could go out. Smiley face included.
Although it had been three months and I had (seemingly) lost interest, I was a tad bit curious and thought it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to hear that glorious accent again.
Dreamy eyes. Big sigh.
We decided to meet for drinks on a Sunday night.
I’m waiting for him at the bar and see his shaved head come through the door. Only, it looks a little different. I couldn’t quite place it.
Then I realized that he had only buttoned the top button on his jacket. That was because the jacket looked to be about 3 sizes too small. That poor top button looked like it was about to pop off it was stretched so tight. He visibly breathed a sigh of relief as he unbuttoned the jacket and collapsed into the seat.
Now, I’m not a completely shallow person. But I found it rather odd that in three months he had managed to gain about 30 pounds. He must have hit that pasta hard in Italy!
He also looked like absolute shit. Puffy face. Bloodshot eyes. I also doubt he had showered, as he smelled strongly of smoke. He was struggling to even sip his beer.
He then began to explain to me how hungover he was. How he had celebrated his 30th birthday the night before and stayed out until 8 AM. I was too afraid to ask him what he had been doing out that late.
“Why would you suggest meeting up tonight if you’re hungover?” I asked, confused.
He shrugged and said in that adorable accent of his, “I thought I would feel better if I left my house.”
I decided I’d let him do most of the talking while I closed my eyes and imagined his tongue in between my…WHAT? I mean. What? Huh? What’d you say?
For about an hour he explained, in detail, how much he had been partying since coming home two weeks ago. Getting blackout drunk 4-5 times a week. Telling stories about the items he had lost, the items he had gained, the expense of his bar tabs, etc. I heard about his girlfriends, all of who seemed to be strippers. Bambi was a lesbian who was on and off with her girlfriend who was a heroin addict. Leilana was a cutter. Coco was addicted to Xanax and would apparently randomly go on “standby” (in the midst of talking she’d stop, open-mouthed and staring at nothing, only to snap right back into the story 30 seconds later).
I wasn’t quite sure what to do at this point, so I just continued to listen and insert giggles when I felt it was appropriate.
I was starting to get a bit annoyed at our conversation, so I decided to change the subject to my recent trip to Europe. As part of my conversation, I mentioned how gorgeous the people in Denmark were.
“Not all of them,” he said with a snort.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Have you been to Denmark?”
“No,” he said, “but I went home with a Danish girl on Thursday night and she wasn’t pretty at all.”
He then went into detail about how unattractive she was. Her dreadlocks. Her face full of metal. Her horrible fashion sense. How she had more tattoos than him.
“WHY did you go home with her if she was so unattractive?” I asked.
“Because I was drunk and she asked,” he said with a smile.
Seriously? I’m usually not at a loss for words, but I literally was speechless. Who goes on a date and tells their date details about their last one-night stand?
“Don’t worry,” he said as he looked at me seriously. “We didn’t have sex. She had so many piercings down there I couldn’t make it work.”
Don’t tell a date about a sexual experience you had three nights before. It’s weird!!
I actually questioned whether we were even on a date at all? He did pay, though, and offered to walk me home, which I steadfastly refused.
Our night ended with no hug, no kiss, no nothing. He said, “We should do this again sometime.” To which I responded: “Yeah, sure … maybe?”