He didn’t say much. His face turned white, then red, and finally settled into pink. I had unsettled him, and I was delighted. Two hours later, Marco was in my crimson-covered bed at the Hotel Campo de’ Fiori. “Mia cara, ti ho perso così,” he said, “odori come i fiori che crescono dalla figa di Venere. Come mi manchi leccarti, gustarti, il mio sogno Americano.” My darling, I missed you so. You smell like flowers growing from Venus’s pussy. How I miss licking you, tasting you, my American dream.
