When he’d have me alone in the room, he’d ultrasound my groins and get a little too close. And yes, he’s been to Capri, but because it gets so touristy in summer … Within the span of five minutes, I find out he’s from Milan, a Kundalini practitioner, lives in Williamsburg, has a golden retriever named Michelangelo (of course), Skypes regularly with Mama, has a younger sister in London and visits his family yearly in Palermo where his father keeps a boat. When I feel his warm hands on my back, I naturally decide this is the moment to bombard him with questions. The ocean’s gentle waves lap from his iPhone 6. Tomaso has prepared the room with the scent of Palo Santo wood, which I recognize from yoga class. I’m soon half nude on my stomach under a towel. Maybe I should allow myself more sexual liberation? Is my need to always feel “safe” and “take it slow” puritanical, patriarchal nonsense? I catch his brown eyes and avert my gaze. He’s straight from porno casting: Italian god in his mid-30s with a big folding table under his muscular arm.
