What is traversing Europe by train without a thorough smattering of sex? A gap yah summer of travelling is nothing if one is single. We all know the stereotype. Move a couple of bricks, gesture compassionately every now and again, and salvation winks in favour of your true penitent behaviour in far flung regions, rewarding you with a few choice delights.
Forget the professed visage of Dante’s penitent sinner, eyelids sewn to the ground. When we reduce a holiday bucket list, all we really want is a good, guilt-free fuck. Or any form of foreign stimulation really. And we don’t care who knows about it, or sees us gurning in ecstasy. In far-flung fields, there will always be an English man, cumming.
The only thing to top sex abroad? Having it in public for all to see. Or at least have the chance of being caught. The heat of the Italian sun beating down upon pale brows, reflecting upon the Adonian form of Italian stallions is enough to get anyone’s juices flowing. Attempting to amble around Venice in 36 degrees with your elderly grandma and extended family does not reduce any of these urges. The humidity may stifle the skin, but it only stimulates the crotch.
But how do you satisfy an itch in a country where one can’t order more than a glass of prosecco? I feel awkward gesturing for the bill with the ridiculous English hand gestures, let alone asking for uno handjob. But lo! My contract happens to include European roaming internet. Grindr Italiano is not an assault on the senses so much as its English counterpart. Yes, the cock pics flow as easily without so much as a ‘Ciao bello xox’. But these are like no men that any pale English boy has seen, all willing to satisfy my (wander)lust.
However, no matter how many Venetians offer a helping hand, I’m still stuck staying in a room with my cousin. We’re the same age and just as horny. And yet I somehow feel even he would feel uncomfortable “sharing”, as one potential suitor suggested. But even I have more class than that. I almost hooked up with a guy staying in our hotel, but the only exchange we had was a rally of awkward glances across the breakfast table, thinking how little we looked like our pictures. I leave Venice frustrated.
Getting on the train to move onto our next destination with a sigh of frustration, I resign myself to sexual failure. Flicking through the catalogue of men on my Grindr screen in first class, I’m tantalised but all I can do is reply that I’m leaving the city.
A faceless profile starts to message me. I’m about to hit the block button, but then a face pic follows which stops me. He’s an American student, and a hot one at that. I’m about to disappoint Casanova number nine when he questions whether I was the guy who got on the train back in Venice. Forgetting stranger danger and focussing on the bulge in my pants, I quickly reply. Turns out he’s in the same carriage as me and asks if I fancy meeting him in the bathroom. I look at my family around me and resolve to escape. Peeking my head through the bathroom door, I see my Romeo approach and quickly get on his knees and set quickly to work with his wooing (refusing to even kiss me). Realising my stop is approaching, I button up and flee.
“You were a long time in there? And why are you sweating?” my Mum awkwardly asks. “Oh, I’m just feeling a little bit too hot,” I reply with a smirk.
