I Publicly Throat-F*cked an Italiano Atop a Mountain in Umbria

"If I were willing to die to for this hookup, I surely wouldn’t let the potential for arrest stop my liaison."

Original illustration by Eduardo.

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It was my final day in central Italy, and I hadn’t hooked up with a single Italian. There was simply no way, after a week, that I would leave the land of pizza, pasta, and paninis without tasting the fourth P: Penis.

It didn’t matter that after an entire week, I was still, somehow, jetlagged, lethargic, and bloated from tagliatelle, pappardelle, and gnocchi. It didn’t matter that my libido had been in the trash (not to be confused with the paper and plastic bins, which Italians separate with a severity, unlike Americans). It didn’t matter that I had no car, couldn’t host, and was in a tiny mountain town without any taxis and Ubers.

I was going to hook up with an Italian man if it killed me.  

I was staying in Umbria, not too far from Tuscany but far from any Italian metropolitan where I could cruise at a gay-friendly bar. So I opened up an old familiar, known to make a unique sound when a message is received.

Most of the Italian men spoke enough English to convey the necessities: position, availability, and ability to host. Beyond that, it was all photos of uncut cocks and hairy holes.

I was staying in a massive villa with twenty-three friends that could have doubled as a museum. Frescos, centuries old, remained perfectly intact on the walls. Intricate chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. (Some hadn’t been electrified and required a ladder to reach and light each candle.) The furniture was ornate and intricate, beautiful and uncomfortable. Footsteps clacking against the tiles echoed throughout the entire establishment. No secrets were allowed; even the slightest whisper would ricochet up the stairs and under closed doors, eventually hitting another’s ears. And so, there was no way I could sneak a man onto the grounds without my housemates knowing.

While most wouldn’t mind—in fact, they’d expect me to bring a stranger into our temporary abode—a few would undoubtedly be upset, quoting safety and the potential for theft. (I have been both robbed and had unsafe encounters on Grindr, so their fears, while annoying, were justified.)

While I pride myself in my looks, I was not handsome enough for a man to drive over to the villa (roughly 13 kilometers—everyone was seemingly 13 kilometers away), pick me up, bring me back to their place to fuck, and then drive me back another 13 kilometers to the villa. Not to mention, neither he nor I would want to be in the car with each other for that long, especially after cumming.

Luckily, there was one Italian man a mere kilometer away. His slicked hair was jet black. His nose was big and bulbous, and his scruff looked rough, land sandpaper. He told me he was looking to suck—no receipt. Lucky for me, as I was looking to bust. (I had only cum once in the past week, a sad shower jerk where I attempted to edge myself but came swiftly within thirty seconds.)

I asked if I could suck him while he blew me. He said his dick was small, way smaller than mine, and he would cum too fast. I told him I love sucking a small dick. “It makes me feel huge,” I messaged. And I would time it so that he spurted right as I came down his throat. (I knew I wouldn’t last long either; it had been days since my last release.)

He couldn’t host but did have a car. It took a little convincing, but when I assured him there was a place atop the hill with some privacy, he agreed to pick me up for public play. (I had not been to the top of my street, but it was relatively deserted, and I felt confident that we would be able to find such a place.)

I entered the piano room and found a close friend playing a classical piece that fit the villa’s atmosphere.

“Hey,” I said softly so as not to startle her. She stopped playing. “I’m going to hook up with a Grindr guy. He will pick me up shortly, but I should be back within thirty minutes max.”

“Oh, nice!” she replied.

 “You have my location. If he kidnaps, tortures, and murders me, you’ll know where to find my mangled body.”

“Sounds good!” she said, laughing.  

I walked outside and opened the copper gate, now green with patina. Moments later, a tiny smart car pulled up beside me. I opened the car door, and there was my Italian man in his work attire: a tight Italian suit with a long-sleeve silk shirt and slacks that hugged his genitals.  

“Hello,” he said, his accent thick.

“Hey, how are you?” I replied, stepping in.

He wasted no time to start driving. “Where do we go?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Turn here,” I said, pointing upward.

A few seconds later, we nearly reached the top of the hill, which was much shorter than I had imagined. There was a car ahead of us, turning into a driveway, and a car behind us. (Two more cars than I had seen in the last seven days in Umbria.)

“Okay, now what?” he asked with a distinct bluntness that one may find in New York but nowhere else in the United States. (This man clearly did not reply to every email with excessive exclamation marks like I do!!).

I had to think fast. He was clearly in a hurry, and the fear of getting caught wasn’t turning him on.  

Luckily, within a few seconds of driving, we saw the turnoff for a private street. From what I could tell, the residence was at the end of a long, winding road.

“This is perfect!” I said, knowing damn well it was sub-optimal at best. At least the road was half-shrouded in shrubbery, which would (hopefully) conceal us from the unsuspecting eyes of any drivers.

“Here?” he asked. His skepticism was extremely valid.

“Yes!” I said, feigning confidence.

“I am not convinced… but okay.”

I cracked open the windows before he turned off the ignition so I could hear cars if they approached. (In hindsight, that was a futile act as nearly every car was smart and eerily silent.)

I scanned the perimeter before dropping my joggers and briefs in one fell swoop. My soft dick plopped out. He unbuckled his seatbelt and arched himself up and over the divider, taking me in his mouth. He sucked hard on my dick, stretching my flaccidity out until it engorged with blood. Once half-chub, I held down the back of his throat. He stuck out his tongue and licked my shaft, and I grew to full mast.