Interruptus

Since I transferred to another work site recently, I hadn't had an opportunity to see the chef again. This has been the longest bout of coitus interruptus in my memory, and I feel it must be remedied. I want to finish what was started and move on to whatever that might entail, but my guess is: not much.

I'm no dummy - I fully recognize that the eagerness and excitement that twist his tongue and have him sitting up like an alert dog upon my arrival will either go away of their own accord, or will become a source of irritation for me. Although I am a sucker for an accent, I couldn't make out two words of a voicemail he left on my work phone. I'm glad I had the sense to not give him my personal number - he has already made it clear that it would be used at inappropriate and difficult-to-explain times. Wow, in re-reading that, I see that I come off like an incredible bitch.

That's okay, I guess. I feel sure that sometimes I am a bitch. I think everyone has their moments. I wish there were fewer of those moments, but at least I am honest about them, and in recognizing them, can try to do something about it.

Anyway, back to business. I'm experiencing this untenable craving for Italian, and nothing will satisfy that itch like a good scratching. As Scarlet wrote once (or the gist of it because I don't know the exact quote): I find myself unable to resist someone who has a genuine need to fuck me.

This doesn't happen often because of the two key words: "genuine" and "need." If I went around fucking everyone who wanted to fuck me (and vice versa), I'd never make it out of the bedroom. None of us would. I am convinced that we are all the objects of desire frequently, if fleetingly. And I know that the list of those I want to fuck alone would keep me busy for the foreseeable future. I like to fuck. That is not the same thing as "need" though.

Adding "genuine" further separates the wheat from the chaff. I think of it in the same context as "true." As in: I genuinely need oxygen, sustenance, rest, and to bury myself deeply in you in order to survive. Being considered right up there with food, clothing, and shelter is fucking hot, my friends, and it will have me on my back likethat.

So, that defined, I get this very rarely, but I am getting it from Massimo. It's like an aphrodisiac of the headiest variety, and I'm having a hard time lately bringing myself to more pressing matters like remembering to pay my bills, and oh yes, my husband. I love how genuinely happy the chef is to see me. I love that he actually says, "I'm so excited I talk too much." I am pleased with myself that he still looks as I have envisioned him, although maybe I now see him as a little better looking, but for the most part my mental image has remained true, and not blown into some outright fantastical image of Roman myth. I infatuate easily under these circumstances, so turning a shortish middle-aged Italian into Iove is not out of the question. I have an amazing imagination.

So, I dropped in on him to visit, with dreams of planting myself on that thick stalk I have been dreaming about and singing "That's Amore." Didn't happen, though. What happened instead was he introduced me to his daughter who was with him for the evening. I smiled and was pleasant, and thought to myself, "Oh. This is not good." I do not want to meet his family. I prefer to not have a face there. Moments later, his mother comes 'round from the back and I am amazed at her ability to look severe and intimidating despite the fact that she is wearing a nice, non-threatening, pastel plaid.

Needless to say, I am out of there as soon as my order is ready, and chef insists on carrying it to my car for me. By this time, I am freaked right out by the impromptu family reunion (which is likely a daily scene here, just new to me) and have forgotten all about my desire to get bent over the prep table and taken liberally by the chef - as if he were dying of thirst and within me lies the well. He is oblivious to this, so it is clear that this is just how his family does.

Imminent danger passed, I relax a bit and find myself amused. I decline to give the chef my phone number, despite his complaint that I don't answer the work phone, and he finally relents and tells me he will be there when I am able - with options extending up to 1-2 years. I think that is a hilarious lie that he does not yet know he's told. We'll meet again much sooner than that. In a year or two, this will all have been a memory. Wistful, joyful, maybe outrageous, but just a mirage nonetheless.