Every summer lots of young Italians come to the British university town in which I live. It defies belief why they come so far north and what they get out of their stay in these parts. The contrast between a summer in Italy and living in a provincial English town must be very stark. The truth is they come to learn or improve their English. The reality is they live on the university campus and spend all their time with their peers talking Italian with brief trips to local places of interest like Stratford on Avon or Warwick Castle. Being Italians they like going to the town market place for an evening stroll. The sadness is that because the locals have largely gone home to the suburbs for their evening meal, the Italians are left to do their passeggiata without the benefit of an appreciative English audience.
One early evening last summer I was driving home from work. I was tired and looking forward to a short siesta before starting on preparing supper. As I drove round the corner into the street in which I live my attention was taken by a young man in his late teens with a sparkle in his eye. In the couple of seconds we had contact I thought, "Hmm. He's nice" and drove on into my street. I noticed he was olive skinned, tall, black hair, muscular legs, and was wearing shorts. I sensed it was one of the many dozens of young Italians in the town but as my gaydar rarely works accurately when I am in Italy, or indeed anywhere on the mainland of Europe, I assumed he was just being friendly.
I parked the car and started walking along the pavement to the house with a pile of work things -- books mainly. I left the boot of the car open intending to get what was left in a moment. In what seem like no time at all there he was walking briskly along the pavement towards me. He was still smiling in that generous way I had clocked moments before. My heart missed a beat or two. I walked into the house with the books I had been carrying and went out again to bring in the remainder. He was standing on pavement with that same inquisitive look in his eyes again.
It was clear even before he spoke that he was Italian. He asked in heavily accented English if I had the time. He pointed at his watch-less wrist. I told him the time in Italian and he grinned then sly corrected my pronunciation. He continued to stand there watching as I carried the last few books from the car into the house. I left the front door of the house open. He walked in after me and pulled his already erect dick out of his shorts. I almost fainted. "We have sex?" he asked in broken English. All I could say was a rather weak, "Si."
He followed me upstairs to the bedroom and, kicking off his sandals, dropped his shorts and pulled off his top. I lay down on my bed and he joined me. He was very aroused as late teenage boys can be. His dick was long, thick, uncut and parallel with his firm stomach. I did not have time to wonder why a young Italian in his late teens should want to have sex with a rather overweight middle aged person like me. He started kissing in a passionate way but soon wanted to push his fingers up my arse. I did not object. He paused for a second and asked in Italian if I was married? I said no and said that I was gay. These seemed to unnerve him. He asked if could he fuck me? I said no, and certainly not without a rubber. He seemed to understand. His olive skin smelled elementally of the earth Moments later he was shooting cum all over his stomach, my face and the wall behind us.
Moments later he had his sandals, shorts and top back on. I asked him his name. He said, "Virgilio". He asked me mine. I said, "Dante". He laughed and left. I just lay there wondering had I dreamed it all? No, his cum was still dribbling down the wall behind the bed. It surely wasn't my cum. It had a distinctive flavour to it- a combination of fine olive oil and garlic. Both are good for the heart.