Tranny Tales Ch. 09: My Dreams

Don't worry about how, just enjoy it because now it belongs only to you.

When we left the Trattoria it was near daybreak. As we drove slowly down the country road, "Look," she exclaimed, "There are the little dogs who hunt tartuffe," and there alongside the road were aged "contadini" (country people) on small Vespa Scooters, who carried a slender walking stick and a tiny dog balanced in a basket, so small as to not disturb the soil where the rarest culinary treasures were hidden. And so ended the night of our love making, still enthusiastic.

Of course in my naivete, I didn't realize that she had slid my cock into her "bel cullo" (ass), I didn't believe such a move could feel so good, so much better than other girl's vaginas. I was home at last. I had no need to ask or question and I was learning.

Our sex life was somewhat bazaar, she taught and trained me as if I was her pet stallion. I found myself doing things I'd never imagined. Silvia was much more experienced than I was. She was my teacher, but I was an eager student. I would do anything to please her. She taught me how to suck her penis, gently, without teeth, slowly but steady, not insucking but licking and tonguing, up and down the shaft and moving in and out but not with great speed, engulfing her member to the point it entered my throat and allowing her to cum there should she so desire. When she came deep down my throat I could hardly taste her but occasion she would fill the shallow of my mouth so my tongue might play with her sweet gelatinous eruption. Don't ask me if her member was the only thing she taught me to lick--it would be too embarrassing to answer.

What was her member, her penis, her shaft, her love dart look like? It was magnificent. Not gargantuan, but perhaps six or seven inches in length, beautifully shaped, straight without curve, the head was a little bit thicker than the shaft and when her foreskin was withdrawn, and it was a short foreskin like a mini skirt one might say, her head was like a ripe mushroom, perhaps like a champagne cork. Her foreskin was unlike any I'd ever seen, and it was common in Italy that young boys swam nude in those years, it was alabaster white, the color of fat that a good butcher wraps around a filet of vitello, and her penis was blood red.

In those days the Bertolucci's film "Last Tango in Paris" starring Brando and Maria Schneider was all the big sensation of the time. Everyone was buttering their behinds and having anal sex--and afterwards they could not stop talking about it. You got reports back telling you much more than you ever wanted to hear from those who experimented and also relatives of family members who could not help gossiping about what their aunt or cousin had told them. We of course thought it was hysterical, especially the butter scene. In those days sex shops selling paraphernalia did not exist, our lubricant was always virgin olive oil, it worked wonderfully.

Now you may wonder if she penetrated me. I would never have objected, but no, she was the female and I was the designated male and my ass was as off bounds as was the cavernous tunnel by which Dante was able to navigate the passage from this world into hell. I had no need to extend my dominion as her lips, her tongue, the cleavage between her breasts, her ass, even the tender spot between her groin and her rectum were mine to explore and to deposit my seed if I so wished. She wanted a man, virile and erect, not some "finocchio" (gay boy) who needs his ass lubed and fucked before he can get his mind together. Needless to describe how she made love to me, but there was nothing that a woman can do that Sivia did not do to me and I took advantage of every opportunity to make love to her every day and night, sometimes repeatedly one after another until there was should have been no cum left in my balls to lather her and yet there was. Oh the beauty of being so young, when sperm seemed to flow endlessly from my cock!

In those marvelous days we would awaken early to the sounds of the market below, the ratcheting up of the taparellows, those metal gates that covered the store's entrances, as the street carts and delivery vans carrying fresh produce down the narrow cobblestone streets-- and we would descend, a happy anticipatory spring in our feet as we would almost dance down the broad three storied staircase of the renaissance building where she lived to purvey the market together, to buy fresh fruit, verdura, tender chicken breasts and the Tuscana steaks that we would carry to the country and grill on our portapak gas grill. We knew all the merchants, those who sold fresh fruit, mushrooms gathered the early hour in the hills, fresh porchetta (roast pig), a fine sandwich of bollito (boiled meat thinly sliced) at noon that we often ate standing up while holding our purchases, enjoying a cold glass of white Albana, a wine described as "amabile" that unexpectedly hid a faint bubbly finish.

We would buy beautiful flowers from Donna Francine. Donatella, the daughter of our old florist almost 50 years ago, who still remembers us as a couple. When I pass by her stand, as I do every once in awhile. Donatella, will take me aside and pinch her thumb and fore finger together, an Italian sign of perfection and sigh, "Ah. La Signorina Silvia, era cosi bella." I smile and move on. Most of the rest of the market people were older and by now have passed.

Then came the fateful day, the day that tore my life asunder. Silvia was on her way to the classic Italian city in Emilia Romagna, called Bologna, and you might ask "is that where baloney was invented." Yes, in fact the cold slices from watermelon sized bologna sausages are unlike any pre-packaged delicatessen meat you ever tried. They are rich and herb flavored with spices, garlic, pistachio nuts and peppercorns that surpass any foreign imitation. But I digress.

It was August 4th, Silvia was to travel by train to Bologna. I accompanied her the the Ferrovia (train station), and bought her a round trip ticket on the Italicus Express train. She said to me, any train car but not the ones in the front, I boarded her in the 5th car. She was going to visit her cousin, to share with her the happiness that we had found together. The train chug-chugged and picked up speed, she was seated in the 1st class compartment on way from our beautiful Florence to the "Red City," when on the outskirts of the city, a bomb exploded.

It was a time of rebellion and descent, the most violent were the Black Order, a Fascist organization that had threatened to disrupt the national election some months away. They had set a time bomb in a suitcase hoping to kill the Prime Minister Aldo Moro, who was on the train coming from Rome but had disembarked several hours earlier. Twelve people in the fifth carriage were killed, many others were injured, the car overturned and filed with blood, broken windows, and my broken dreams that have lasted a lifetime.

I buried her on a hill overlooking the city, in a small cemetery that included many of my ancestors going back 400 years. On the Day of the Dead, the holiday called "I Gorni di Morti," that falls on November 1st and 2nd of each year, I return to the little gated cemetery, I place carnation flowers on her tomb and I kneel to clean the grave, wash off the small headstone, push back the ivy and cry the dry tears of old age when I gaze at the inscription, "Wherein lie my dreams."

This year I took my granddaughter Alicia, we drove in the classic red Ferrari to the tiny cemetery where our ancient mausoleum stands. There are still a few crypts unoccupied, one is saved for me. When we passed Silvia's tomb there in front of the mausoleum, my granddaughter asked, "And who is this one Granpapa, I just answered, "Oh a cousin I think." and I gaze out across the valley where the cemetery for the dead World War I Soldiers lies, the white cement crosses go on as far as the eye can see, I struggle to see the entrance gate shrouded in morning fog where the words of Siegfried Sassoon are inscribed,"the ways of God are strange!"

"Yes dear Silvia, so strange indeed."