Thursday, April 13, 2006
Those We Say "No" To(Pt.1)
Usually people like to talk about their sexual conquests, the "notches on my belt" sort of thing, or the so-called "trophy wife." Not so frequently do people talk about the "ones that got away," or the ones we tell to go away.
Being my usual perverse little self, I of course am more fascinated by the ones I let get away, the ones I told to yallah, sod off, bugger off, or otherwise take a hike somewhere new. I was really surprised at the sheer numbers, men and women, I managed to diss over the years. And it was really about their attitude. If they had not been so assertively in my face, well who knows.
There was this Italian kid on the Lido in Venice, January 1967, where I went with several other American kids for a day of sightseeing. Personally I found Italy rather beautiful in the middle of winter, the crowds are gone and you actually get to mingle with some of the locals. I found the Italians are especially keen on mingling. They really do like blondes. Travelling throughout Italy, I got a lot of people asking, right off the bat, "Swedish? Are you Swedish?" with a hopeful air. I soon learned how to play it: those Swedish girls come to Italy and make trouble for the rest of us blondes. So I decided to make my Americanness front and center; after all, we're the women who boss our men around, and the Italians don't like that. So they think twice about us American girls.
So my friends and I ran into these two Italian guys, out for a stroll around to see what trouble they could find. One of them seemed keen on me and was not at all interested in hearing "no."
I seem to run across two kinds of guys: one kind tends to be very very passive, they hover around and try to position themselves directly under my feet, as it were. Hoping I will trip over them and discover the diamond in the rough, lurking just inside their silent demeanors. The other group does just the opposite: they come at me as if they were crusader knights storming a fortress. They seuss out correctly that I'm the sort of woman who can only be taken by seige. In a way I can understand this point of view. I would probably adopt it myself if I had to deal with me.
Now, the first group may sound easier to deal with, but I am probably more drawn to the second category of guy. Because they think like I would in this situation.
This Italian kid was in this category. Very aggressive, even though he spoke no English at all, and I spoke no Italian and neither did my friends. The fact we were a mixed crowd, with several males along, did not deter these two interlopers. They saw women they could bother, and they were going to bother them.
The aggressive boy was rather beautiful, I am wondering why the hell I did say no. He was slim and lean, with eyes of a light, dazzling blue color that you don't see a lot of in Italy, even near the northern border with Austria. His hair was longish and curling around his shirt collar, and it was as blond as mine. He must have thought we would make an attractive couple, and he zeroed right in on me. He said something cheeky-sounding in Italian, and that probably made me look sulky, because then he took his hand and placed it under my chin, shaking it playfully from side to side. He seemed to be scolding me. He was cocky. If he hadn't have been so cocky, he might have had a chance. But he was, so I scolded him back and we got away from them.
TO BE CONTINUED
Being my usual perverse little self, I of course am more fascinated by the ones I let get away, the ones I told to yallah, sod off, bugger off, or otherwise take a hike somewhere new. I was really surprised at the sheer numbers, men and women, I managed to diss over the years. And it was really about their attitude. If they had not been so assertively in my face, well who knows.
There was this Italian kid on the Lido in Venice, January 1967, where I went with several other American kids for a day of sightseeing. Personally I found Italy rather beautiful in the middle of winter, the crowds are gone and you actually get to mingle with some of the locals. I found the Italians are especially keen on mingling. They really do like blondes. Travelling throughout Italy, I got a lot of people asking, right off the bat, "Swedish? Are you Swedish?" with a hopeful air. I soon learned how to play it: those Swedish girls come to Italy and make trouble for the rest of us blondes. So I decided to make my Americanness front and center; after all, we're the women who boss our men around, and the Italians don't like that. So they think twice about us American girls.
So my friends and I ran into these two Italian guys, out for a stroll around to see what trouble they could find. One of them seemed keen on me and was not at all interested in hearing "no."
I seem to run across two kinds of guys: one kind tends to be very very passive, they hover around and try to position themselves directly under my feet, as it were. Hoping I will trip over them and discover the diamond in the rough, lurking just inside their silent demeanors. The other group does just the opposite: they come at me as if they were crusader knights storming a fortress. They seuss out correctly that I'm the sort of woman who can only be taken by seige. In a way I can understand this point of view. I would probably adopt it myself if I had to deal with me.
Now, the first group may sound easier to deal with, but I am probably more drawn to the second category of guy. Because they think like I would in this situation.
This Italian kid was in this category. Very aggressive, even though he spoke no English at all, and I spoke no Italian and neither did my friends. The fact we were a mixed crowd, with several males along, did not deter these two interlopers. They saw women they could bother, and they were going to bother them.
The aggressive boy was rather beautiful, I am wondering why the hell I did say no. He was slim and lean, with eyes of a light, dazzling blue color that you don't see a lot of in Italy, even near the northern border with Austria. His hair was longish and curling around his shirt collar, and it was as blond as mine. He must have thought we would make an attractive couple, and he zeroed right in on me. He said something cheeky-sounding in Italian, and that probably made me look sulky, because then he took his hand and placed it under my chin, shaking it playfully from side to side. He seemed to be scolding me. He was cocky. If he hadn't have been so cocky, he might have had a chance. But he was, so I scolded him back and we got away from them.
TO BE CONTINUED
