The Oxbridge community consists of a variety of people from all around the world. A commonly mentioned fact from my blog is that I have slept with nine nationalities. I have therefore decided to dedicate part of this blog to those various foreigners.
Today, the Italian Stallion.
When in Rome … get back on a plane to wherever the hell you came from.
Actually I’ve been to Italy and it was lovely. Sleeping with an Italian, however, left much to be desired. I think it was my choice of Italian, as I have no doubt that as a race they are probably fantastic lovers. Behind every stereotype is a stereotype, so I’m sure I just got the anomaly of the group.
In general, if someone is bad at kissing it’s game over. I should have stuck to those standards once Italian Boy attempted to devour my face. He was very attractive though, and I was curious to see how his enthusiasm would translate in the bedroom. Not so well as it turns out, mainly because it involved a lot more snogging. I couldn’t really focus on the sex because I was too busy trying to avoid his mouth by turning my head side to side in feigned enjoyment.
“Italian Stallions” perhaps refers to their stamina, which to his credit, and my dread, he had lots of. Luckily at some point I was able to maneuver myself into a position which made kissing difficult, if not impossible. The experience was exponentially better without the kissing, and I welcomed the break to subtly wipe the excess moisture off my face from his enthusiastic use of tongue when kissing.
After finishing significantly better than we started, it was time to escape before he got any ideas about further making out and sexual adventures. Once was enough, and luckily we were in his room so I didn’t have to have that awkward, “Right, could you leave now?” conversation that inevitably comes if I take someone back to mine.
Needless to say, I avoided the kiss goodbye. “Arrivederci” sufficed.