Caro Maurizio,
° Non scrivo da molto tempo. Perché?
° Perché. Capito?
° I was tucking into some very munchy asparagus and feta with ripe olives and sweet peppers when in he came. I stared rudely and appreciatively. He stared back. Twice.
° All I could think was, "Where's Caravaggio when he could be of some earthly use?"
° Prince Romolo's face really appeared to have been drawn by an artist, not conglomerated from semen and eggyolk. Every feature as perfect as could be, and the chin, just onequarter inch short, an act of genius, it suffused the entire design with Venus. When he sat between me and the glass, I measured his eyelashes against those of a very attractive female at the next table. She came off like a plucked and singed chicken.
° Of course, Prince Romolo is the norm in Rome, or, at least, is always just around the corner. But in America, in Overton?
° He seemed melancholy, peoplewatched, left as alone as he had entered.
° Because, of course, no local male and very few females could appear with him as a plausible couple.
° Poor Prince Romolo.
§
° Later, at the Y, I was directing healing hot jets of water at my sore spots, and noticing that the muscleguy opposite was doing likewise, though the spot at which he was directing the stroking currents--.
° In he came. Old King Zophuktup. Seventy if he was a day. Obese by American standards, grossly obese by mine. And his ankles--my goodness, they were purple clear around from his heels to halfway up the calves.
° I considered how quickly I could exit the whirlpool without appearing--though there was not broken skin, I reckon his disease was not contagious. I hope not.
° And then the steamroom. And here came King Zophuktup. And I tucked my legs onto the bench, lest he play footsie. Meanwhile everyone else fled. And then I was too tenderhearted to flee. And then King Zophuktup began to play with himself. And then I fled unseeing to the showers and home and hope to goodness my ankles don't go gangrenous.
§§§§§
° Moral of the story? Well there isn't any.
° Except--that it's better to be isolated from humanity because you're too phine, than because you're too phat and phuktup.
° Though how do I know? Or you either?--Giac to Maurizio
° No sooner had little Akbar shown me the fotos of his brother's wedding, and of himself dancing, stripped to the waist, through the fountain jets of the plaza later that evening, than I popped the question.
