https://Voice.club - Thinking about – no, full disclosure – fantasizing about kissing a man in an Italian restaurant is just contrary but I couldn’t help it.
I was in one of those hole-in-the-wall eateries that seem to magically appear in rural Tuscany just when this weary tourist could go no further. I’d stopped the car and climbed out, ready and willing to pay heavily for a plate of true country-style pasta.
The atmosphere of the restaurant was saturated with the smell of hot garlic, the tingle of spicy sauces, the tang of prosciutto, the air slightly blue from hot oil. I began to float in my personal food-bliss.
Then I looked up and that’s when the other fantasy began. In my defense, the guy was gorgeous, structured film-star profile, body muscled and toned – don’t you just love a torso covered in a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, showing just a bit of chest hair? This man was a prime example of male beauty and grace, and I momentarily lost my interest in the glorious bowl of sinuously glistening spaghetti, piquant tomato sauce and pale grated cheese.
All around me diners were slurping spaghetti, expertly balled around their forks. The man, the unwitting object of my somewhat prurient gaze, opened his gorgeous mouth, closed his luscious lips around his fork and sucked in the trailing, lubricated strands without splashing, or otherwise marring the manly two-day stubbled chin. It was genius, an innate skill bred into his obviously beautiful DNA. I sat, my own fork suspended, while I envied that fortunate food.
Until my personal nemesis, the killjoy who resides in my brain and ruins many a happy daydream caused me to wonder if a garlic-infused kiss would be the nectar of my soul’s desiring?
Really? Garlic? Now all I could think of was morning-after mouth, stale oil and tomato stains on that crisp white shirt.
I looked down at my bowl, full of comfort food and ready to oblige me.
Forget kissing. This was all I needed.
Satisfied, I tucked in my bib, and I started my own slurp-fest.
