Sweet Jesus, hallelujah.
I can’t see his face because his back is to us as he is pounding into a woman. Maybe pounding isn’t the word. Grinding, thrusting, plunging—take your pick. I can’t see her at all because his masculine frame is blocking my view. All I can see of her is two legs wrapped around his lean torso. With each thrust, his gluts flex in and the lats muscles on his back pump out.
These two are having sex. And it’s the really dirty kind.
A pool of heat settles between my legs. The nerve endings in my chest spark alive and my cheeks flush with heat.
It’s like the first time I watched soft porn. My friends wanted to see what it was about so they turned on Cinemax and we sat there in silence pretending we weren’t being affected. The truth was I was sitting there with a throbbing between my legs and the very strong desire to do something about it.
I have that exact feeling right now.
“My turn.” Leah says, grabbing the binoculars from my face.
I breathe out through my puckered lips. That was hot. Really hot.
And really sick of us to watch.
“Leah, there has to be some law against you watching them have sex. Aren’t there, like, stalker laws?” I ask.
“They’re having sex in the open. If we were home, they’d be the ones getting arrested.” She licks her lips and bites down on her lower lip. “I love Italy already.”
Shaking my head, I walk back over to the bed and try to fall asleep.
My mind racing with visions of naked men, it’s not so easy for me to fall into sleepy land as it was before.
The first night of our sister sabbatical was more than I was ready for. After sleeping for five hours, Leah threw me out of bed and made me put on a very sparkly halter top and black capri pants for dinner. She insisted we wear capris in Capri. I couldn’t argue with her logic.
After dinner, we went to the Piazetta Umberto I, the town square, got tipsy on limoncello and then followed a group of other twentysomethings to a club in town. Leah’s idea, not mine. There we drank more limoncello, and by the end of the night Leah had the entire club singing a Katy Perry song.
Because that’s what Leah does.
And apparently, even non-English–speaking Italians know the words to Katy Perry songs.
While they sang and danced, I sat at a table and sucked down my drinks, plastering a fake smile on my face, trying not to ruin Leah’s “honeymoon” or elicit one of those looks from her.
I caught her inspecting me a few times, making sure I wasn’t falling into a mood or withdrawing myself. She thought she was being sly, asking me if I wanted another drink when it was still full and hers was drained, encouraging me to drink up or telling me a joke and making sure I laughed at it, because, if I didn’t, then something must be wrong. Each time her eyes drifted over to mine, I’d bob my head to the music pretending I’m into whatever song the DJ is playing when I’d rather have been back in the room.
This morning, my brain does not like the Teenage Dream lived last night and feels like I have fireworks going off in my head.
Thank you, Leah, and thank you, Katy Perry.
And thank you, limoncello.
“Rise and shine.” My chipper roommate bounces on the bed. Since I don’t drink as much as she does on a daily basis, my body doesn’t process liquor as fast as hers does. I think I’m still a little drunk.
“Go away.” My voice is deep and hoarse.
“’Morning, Emma.” A male voice echoes from Leah’s speakerphone.
I glance up at the clock beside the bed. “’Morning Adam. Holy God, what time is it over there?”
Adam’s chuckle pours out of the phone. “Four in the morning. Just getting off the nightshift. You sound like you had fun last night.”
I grumble at his reference to my morning man-voice.
“You keeping my girl from getting into trouble?” he asks, knowing his fiancé oh-so-well.
“Her talents for entertainment have rose to international capabilities.”