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November 22, 2004
Creepy Guys
My neighbors must have gotten their electricity turned on just in time for their birthday/freak party (I was promised it would be a birthday party until about 8pm when the kids would all be sent to sleep. After that it would be a "freak" party - a party with many drunk adults dancing, several of them eager to "sex [me]"). I could tell they had their power back on because the same two songs came rumbling through the wall that divides the houses. There was one that went, "step in the name of love..." and another about sweat dripping down someone's balls. Even though the first song had a wholesome motowny sound, I hope the songs weren't played with such frequency because they were little Talleea's favorites.
After a while I got fed up with the same beat and headed on down to see Monger at the Talking Head. Somewhere along the way I decided that I didn't want to spend my entire weekend there (I saw Two if by Sea on Friday and would be going again on Sunday to see Saturday Looks Good to Me) and turned in the direction of the cafe in Little Italy where a friend was working.
It was 'round about closing time and I scored a couple free beers and a chance to meet the chef. He was from Italy and seemed rather creepy to me. Come to think of it, most guys I've met from Italy seem kind of creepy to me. I haven't met that many, but I did spend a few weeks in Rome a couple years back and met a few there.
I went with my sister and stayed with the unemployed son of a friend of a friend of someone (I didn't care, I got a free place to stay). He showered once while I was there, after a soccer game he played about 3/4 of the way through my visit. He and his friends were overly concerned with sex. They had a sleezy, groping, date-rapist demeanor about them. They constantly begged my sister to make out with them. Then whoever spoke English and didn't have his lips occupied would urge me to "make fuck with" our host's girlfriend's best female friend, Venessa. The joke was Venessa was contemplating becoming a nun and they all got slapped when they tried, so they wanted to watch someone else try.
From my calculations Italians men's obsessions with sex are inversely proportional to the amount of sex allowed them by Italian women. (Hence my hosts' array of travel stories.) The guys loved taking us out to a bar that served hamburgers, because we were Americans, and Americans love hamburgers. The hamburgers were like rawhide and smothered in mayonaise that tasted like tuna and
lemon. They were served by a hideously ugly, toothless, heroin addicted, bisexual bartender. In his best pigeon-English he told us he wanted to have our faces tattooed on his arms so he could see us
every time he shot up; apparently it would make his high angelic.
The next time we went for burgers (at our host's insistence, because American's love hamburgers) our bartender friend came around with free drinks for the table, and two for me. While asking if we wanted a second round he also asked the others' at my table to translate something for him.
He wanted to know if my sister and I would have sex with him. Seperately was fine, but he wanted it known that he would prefer together.
I tried to get my hosts to get us out of there with relative haste, but it wasn't that easy. My sister was making out with the bartender.
Posted by calculatoronfire at November 22, 2004 01:01 PM
Comments
I had a similar experience in France. Think Pepe le Pew, but add several magnitudes of stench and subtract the obnoxious charm. I am convinced that the no-bathing policy has something to do with the creepy oversexed-ness...maybe breathing in their own pheromones all the time makes them constantly think about sex.
Posted by: emma at November 22, 2004 03:38 PM
Nope. I never shower, and look at me: totally sex free.
Oh wait. I do think about it. Constantly. Like now.Right now.
Oh, man. I need to take a cold shower.
Posted by: brian at November 22, 2004 04:01 PM