I know you’ve all been waiting for it. The post on Italian men. Well, wait no longer my kiddies, because here it is…
Like I’ve said before, the men here don’t even attempt to hide the stares, as they slowly look you up and down, or the muttered comments as you walk by. Some nicknames I have acquired: The Red Bullet, Curly Bambini, and the most common, Shakira.
Honestly, sometimes it’s flattering but most of the time I just want to slap off their smirking smiles. I’ve learned to ignore them for the most part. Until last night…
I went out with a girl from my class, who speaks pretty good Italian and she brought out her current arm candy and a few of his friends. One of ’em, Marco, started chatting me up right away. He spoke fluent English, so that helped. But I couldn’t stop looking at the cute, mysterious, blonde Italian boy, let’s call him Diablo. He only muttered a few words the entire time we were at the bar and didn’t know a lick of English. I was intrigued.
We were all having a good time so we decided to move the party back to my friend’s apartment. We put on some music, popped some champagne and watched the sexual tension erupt.
I was sitting on the couch, talking to Marco when out of NOWHERE Diablo says something in Italian, walks across the room and kisses me, and we’re not talking about a little peck here, people. Then Marco steps in and tries to take over the reins. I mean, the poor guy has been putting in the leg work all night. Suddenly I am in the middle of two handsome Italian men vying for my attention. I motioned for them to stop and I don’t know exactly what happened, but Diablo said something to Marco in Italian.
Soon after, Marco trotted off and left Diablo and I to our own dangerous devices. The language barrier made our make-out sesh exciting, animalistic and entertaining.
We were both communicating at a preschool level hoping the other person just might understand.
Diablo: You like me?
Me: Molto poco (I say jokingly)
I’ve never had to work so hard in my life to try to explain to somebody in the heat of the moment that there would be nessun sesso. He asked for my number at the end of the night. And after the second time we hung out, I hope he doesn’t use it again. He did not hesitate to tell me he wanted to sleep with me. And I did not lead him guessing as to what the answer to his proposal would be. Perhaps he saw that as a challenge, but I’m done playing.
I don’t want to encourage the already widely known stereotype that American women are easy. Diablo wasn’t trying to take me on a date, he was trying to take me home.
No sono una American tipica, I told him. But then I realized maybe I should walk the walk. Why was I hanging out with this type of guy that just wanted one thing in Firenze, when I would not be doing this in San Diego. I need to keep true to my morals, no matter my location.
Yes, they dress extremely well and have one of the most romantic languages in the world, and somehow grown men manage to look suave on a Vespa, but just like all the Italian women who deal with this type of man every day, I will ignore you unless you treat me with respect.
Italian women ooze self-confidence and sex appeal without even trying. They make men work for their attention; for their time. I think part of it is because they’re not raised in a home where someone is always too fat, or their nose is too big or their hair is too frizzy. Italian women are taught to appreciate themselves at a young age, therefore they do so in adulthood. They leave the house looking effortlessly chic, they hold their heads high, and they walk [in 3” heels] with a purpose. Watching these women made me re-evaluate how I carry myself, how I view true beauty and how I interact with men.