It was late and I came in to the office to drop off some important documents at my father's desk. The silence in the building was almost deafening, which was only interrupted by the sound of my footsteps as I strode along the long marbled hallways towards the room sitting at its very end. I passed one dark room after another, not expecting anyone to be there. A couple of doors shy of my father's, I came upon one lit room. I thought it was the night watch man up and about doing his job, until I saw a lock of long, black hair in front of a computer screen; and small, delicate hands typing away at the keyboard beneath them.

I looked closer and realized that it was Becks from Accounting. I called to her softly, saying her name. I didn't mean to frighten her, but it was exactly what I did. Her hands suddenly lifted from the keyboard, her body tensed, and I could've sworn that I heard her say "Fuck."

I held back a laugh, promptly asking her what she was doing in the office at that hour. Apparently, one computational error led to her being stuck there that night. And she admitted to that fault. She went on about how it had been a really hectic week for her and I would tell her that she cannot charge overtime for the extra work, but she already knew that. She was smiling the whole time, but I saw in her eyes how disappointed she was about what happened. It was a simple mistake that had bigger consequences, I suppose.

So I asked her how long she planned on staying and she told me that she was almost done. I told her I'd give her a ride home and to see me at my office when she's ready to go. She gave me a look of disbelief like I've never done it before (and found it kind of cute, actually), which confirmed that not a lot of people actually know me. It was amusing, to say the least, and all I could do was smile. Of course she said yes, albeit quite reluctantly. I'm pretty certain anyone would find it a bit unorthodox for "the man upstairs" to offer one of his subordinates a ride home. Nevertheless, I took it with a grain of salt and left her there to wrap up her work.

After I left my father's documents in his office, I went into mine and settled myself on the sleek leather chair I bought last week. I swiveled around and stared into the magnificent view behind me, a vast open sea under the full moon. Funnily enough, the first thought that came into my head was of Becks straddling me on that very chair and of her beautiful silhouette glowing against the moonlight. Man, was I on fire that night; and the source was just a few meters down the hall from where I sat.

A few minutes later, I heard a knock on the door and it was her. I wondered what she was doing there and only a few seconds after the fact did I remember the offer I made. She had that embarrassed smile on her face, a look that said she could use a ride home but it really wasn't necessary, and that she only agreed because I was her boss. I've come to recognize that look ever since I took my post as an executive at the company, and I suppose it's unfortunate that I've become used to it.

The short drive to her place was quite uneventful. She sat beside me at the back of the car, silent and still as the night. Most of the time she was just looking out the window, and I'm quite sure it was to avoid making awkward conversation with me. As for myself, it was probably the first time I tried not to make advances on a woman at the back of a moving car. Becks was a nice, innocent girl who made me feel like I would be committing a mortal sin if I so much as tried to touch her hair.

It felt good. Fuck, it felt great. The thought that something so close could be so out of reach thrilled me. I knew I wanted her, but I wasn't sure if she wanted me. And by the looks of it, she probably didn't. She appeared disinterested, aloof... The woman wanted the whole thing over and done with. As soon as we get to her place, she would look at me, thank me, say goodnight, step out of the car, and disappear into her apartment. Yes, the thought that she would snub me so politely was great. It was awesome. It was...

Possible.

The car stopped, the door to her apartment was right there. As soon as the driver stepped out of the car, Becks turned towards me and gave me a small, tired smile. The seconds seemed to stretch between us, until finally, the driver opened her door. Her smile widened and she looked at me and said, "Thank you, Mr. Mancini." And then she said good night, stepped out of the car, and promptly disappeared into her apartment.

I've never been so successfully half-ignored like that since my sophomore year in college. And I suppose I should stop convincing myself that I know women well. There's a vast number that act and think alike, mostly women that I've come in contact with over the years. What's funny is that I've met women from different parts of the world, and it took someone that worked in the same building to make me realize that no matter how similar they all seem to be, they could also be worlds apart.

I felt like a new man, like a veil was lifted from my eyes and I knew what I had to do. I told the driver to take me home, where I immediately took a nice, cold shower.

She was wearing this sexy little violet number and she had cheap, but flattering, make-up on. Her lips moved sensually along with the lyrics to the song.

You give me fever...

She sang it almost as good as the late Miss Peggy Lee did and she was just as beautiful. Her brown skin was golden under the yellow spotlight, specks of dust surrounded her like a hundred dancing fireflies. She was the star of that show and what a star she was, in more ways than one.

Everything felt as if they were moving in slow motion. The waitresses in black uniforms walking past, the slow rise of smoke from the burning tip of my cigarette, and a beer bottle making its slow descent into a shattering finality. This jazz bar was about the same as the other jazz bars in town. They had a small stage with a band, a lonely bar, and round tables scattered about. The only thing different about this one was that they had her.

When you kiss me...

She with the smoking hot body, and she who looked at me with those gorgeous brown eyes, lids closing and opening slowly, as if waving to me with lashes that stretched on to forever. A bead of sweat then trickled down the side of my forehead and carefully made its way to my temple. I was about to lose it.

Fever when you hold me tight...

I could tell by the way she looked at me -- boy, was there something there. She had this invisible grip on me and she didn't even know it. And so I made arrangements with the manager to meet with her after the performance and I gave the fat bastard the usual spiel of wanting to hire her for a party I was throwing. I'm amazed at how convincing it still is; or maybe he was just used to the fact that men liked his singing girl. I could care less.

She had a room at the back and when I came to it, a note hung from her door:

"ROOFTOP."

She was already making me smile.

I followed the wooden staircase leading to her, and believe me when I say I tried not to do two or three steps at a time. A fresh breeze greeted me on the landing, and there she was: Her back was to me, the silk of her dress slow dancing with the wind. I walked towards her with soft, easy strides. I knew she felt my presence there, but she didn't budge. Her palms were flat against the rooftop's edge, and her head was angled towards the stars.

I stood barely an inch away behind her, and I took in the smell of her hair and the hypnotizing scent of her perfume. I felt the nape of her neck as she let out the tiniest gasp of pleasure. She wanted it as badly as I did. We had the privacy of the rooftop to ourselves and I have instructed the manager not to disturb us. The sky was clear, the stars shone brightly above us, and we had an amazing view of the sea. The weather was perfect, the place was perfect... she was perfect.

Her breathing then shifted from relaxed to slow deep breaths. I slowly traced the length of her spine starting from her nape, caressing along down her back with a long, feathery touch. I placed my lips on her shoulder ever so lightly and when I looked at her, she was just opening her eyes again, letting out a sigh that I knew she was holding in. Lovely, perfect woman... She kept her gaze to the heavens above as my hand travelled down to her waist and around to her navel, searching for a heaven of its own.

Fever all through the night.

Mixing business with pleasure is one of the better perks of client entertainment. Not only do you get to bullshit clients into a high-profile agreement, you also get to sail the beautiful Mediterranean region. Honestly, the business part only takes about 10% of your time, another 10% is devoted to ass-kissery, and the rest is for doing whatever the hell you want.

Mr. and Mrs. BigShot (not their real names, for obvious reasons) represent one of our company's elite clientele. They're a middle-aged couple that enjoy anything and everything expensive and luxurious. Worth millions of Euros (net), they like being spoiled (probably because they're childless?).

Hence, I chose Dubrovnik, Croatia. There's no better place to tickle their fancies than one that has everything to set their blue-blooded hearts on fire. It has great food, history, beautiful sights, beautiful people, and fantastic beaches.

Dubrovnik was absolutely amazing. The BigShots seemed like they enjoyed the entire weekend we spent there. I arranged a three-day private tour for them, including seaside dinners, cocktails, and massages for two. They loved the jazz cafes about town as well.

Ah... the BigShots. Fucking boring people! Hah. I'm glad I got that out of my chest. Every day they just wanted to talk, eat, walk, sip coffee, talk, drink tea, talk... Dio! I played the I'll-leave-you-two-alone-to-enjoy-the-sights card every chance I got, and I only thank the Lord it worked every single time.

...which should bring me to the pleasure part of my Croatian getaway, but alas, I'm out of time. I will be flying back to Rome in half an hour and so I could only promise to finish the rest of the story when I'm all settled in the Eternal City.

Before I forget - to those who celebrate it...

Buon Natale e Felice Anno Nuovo!
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all!

I went to a small pub near the city last Friday night after work. The place was dimly lit and narrow, stretching only quite as far as the bar counter would go. It was pretty deserted save for the 'tender and a couple of regulars -- tall, stocky men with gigantic hands wrapped around tankards of beer.

As I came in through the front door, the men turned around to see who the newcomer was. I simply looked back at them, keeping eye contact, and then gave them a curt nod. I figured that in a place like this, a smile might be misconstrued as being outright full-of-it when offered to the wrong people. In other words, I played it safe by exercising cautious politeness.

The men looked comfortable at their table, so I took a seat by the bar on the opposite side. The bartender walked over and nodded, which only meant that he was then prepared to take my order. It had been a whirlwind of a day, so I thought I'd slow it down with a glass of cold lager.

It wasn't long before a girl came into the bar, wearing a purple form-fitting shirt over white shorts. She looked like she was only about 16 or 17, and I thought that she was lost and had entered the pub by mistake. Of course I was proven wrong almost at that very instant. She walked right in like it was nobody's business and sat two stools away from me.

"Buona sera!" she called to the bartender. She was smiling, perfect teeth all lined up and shining like a beacon in that otherwise dark and gloomy place.

"Ah, mia nipote," the bartender replied as if disappointed, walking over to her with a hint of a smile. "Which one would you like to try tonight, hmm?"

The girl laughed quietly then told him the name of a drink that I've never heard before. Surprisingly, le uncle obliged and gave her a pint of dark gold liquid that was obviously beer, though I wasn't entirely sure which one. Even more surprising was how this young woman chugged half of it down in one swig and didn't even flinch or twitched an eye.

I was half stunned, half amused. Not only was this girl the bartender's niece, she was also one heck of a drinker. At first I thought about how I just witnessed the most awesome underage drinking in that pub when I realized that I was in Italy, where the legal drinking age is 16.

She made a sound that echoed her satisfaction so precisely; she needn't say anything more. The bartender puffed out his chest in pride. What they both did next came quite unexpectedly: As if on cue, both turned their heads to look in my direction. I presumed that they were looking for some sort of outsider approval, so I gave it to them by beating my own chest twice and nodded. This little gesture received a loud guffaw and the sweetest, most adorable giggle I've ever heard. Hell, I wasn't even sure if they were laughing at the gesture or worse, laughing at me.

It went on for about a minute or so until, finally, the young woman spoke. "Siete persi?"

I tried not to react, but a small fragment of a laugh escaped from my lips. "No," I answered, shaking my head. "No, I'm not lost." I looked at her and she was still smiling, waiting for me to continue. "Actually, I thought you were," I told her.

Apparently, the girl lived right above the pub with her bartender uncle and his wife. The couple had owned the place since the early 90s. After her parents died in a horrific car accident about eight years ago, the girl moved in with her uncle and has lived in that pub ever since. As soon as she hit 16, she tried her uncle's trademark brew and maybe, she just fell in love with it. (As you can see, she drinks like men twice her age do.) She drank a glass of beer every week, unless there was a party, of course, which meant she could drink a whole keg if she wanted to.

Next year she would be trying out for Cambridge and by the looks of it, she actually has a huge shot at bagging a spot there. The way she talked and carried herself spoke volumes, which I rarely say about anybody. Heck, I told her to come to me if she ever needed a reference.

Dio... I'm surprised that she didn't turn out a fucked up little teenager with all that drinking. I probably would have been. The girl had a nice body, flawless skin, legs that extended for miles, and a good head on her shoulders. She looked quite fit and healthy, even bordering on sexy. Honestly, if she wasn't underage and her uncle wasn't there, I'd probably hit on her. Alas, I'm not that fucked up in the head just yet, nor am I seriously lacking in the screw department, either. I'm just saying that I met an impressive young woman in a pub, and for one night, I wished to God that I'd meet someone like her, only a bit older.

Fuck. I'm never going back to that place.

I have been busy as of late. Between work and the occasional house party, I barely have enough time to get some decent rest, let alone fill you guys in on the goings-on in my life. I've been with someone, too, but that quickly went away when she suggested that I meet her father.

In any case, my father had granted me the honor of answering all of his incoming calls for the past week. Yeah, big whoop. If you're the son of a rich, powerful man, people tend to hate your guts just for that simple fact.

Case in point: Last Tuesday, the director of a non-profit firm my father deals with called with the sole purpose of letting the old man know how incredibly upset he was about certain things (that I couldn't disclose here).

"I want to speak to your father... NOW!"
"I'm sorry Mr. *****, but he's not available at the moment. If I could only take a message..."
"What?! Do you even know to whom you're talking, boy?"
"Yes, sir. You told me your name."
"Are you mocking me?"
"No, sir."
"You're mocking me, aren't you?"
"I would never dream of it, sir."
"So you think you're one of the big guys now, huh? Sitting with him in business meetings, going to parties, hoarding your pennies and helping yourself to a handful from dear old Daddy's pocket, eh?"
"Sir..."
"You make me sick."

And he hung up.

See what I mean? Just because my father and I share the same last name, Mr. Director automatically pegs me for an asshole and a brat.

It's a shame, really. I've heard a lot of things about him and he's generally a good guy with good intentions. Unfortunately for him, my father's a strict businessman. In his world, it's all about the money.

Too bad he couldn't see me outside my old man's shadow. If he couldn't see me for the man that I am, then I guess breaking up with his daughter was my single best move for the week.

Why do these things happen to me?

That is a question I frequently ask myself and once asked my good friend Daniel. He told me, "Amico, you ask for too much."

And I said to him, "Too much of the wrong thing is bad, yeah. But there's nothing wrong with asking for too much of the right thing. You can never have enough of what makes you happy, right?"

He looked at me then with that I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that look of his. Sometimes I wonder why I still manage to surprise him with some of the things that I say.

"You're supposed to be my best friend, Danny," I said. "I was expecting you to understand how my mind works. But I guess I overestimated you."

His eyes regarded me for a while before they turned away to look at the pigeon feeding on breadcrumbs he kept throwing out. "First of all," he sighed, like he's said it a million times before. "It's Dan now. Or Daniel. Nobody calls me Danny, anymore. Secondly," he threw another piece of bread on the ground and two more pigeons landed by his feet. "How can I know how your mind works? Besides the fact that it's fucked up, you never tell me anything!"

I looked at my friend and I just had to smile inwardly. Truer words have never been spoken.

I sat there quietly, at a loss for words. There isn't a good enough comeback to what Daniel just said to me. I started drumming my knees with my thumbs, looking beyond the ground where the pigeons were and towards a table outside a café where two women in beautiful summer dresses sat.

I heard a voice within me say, "And you ask why these things happen to you? Maybe you just think with the wrong head, Devon."

I couldn't believe I just schooled myself.

The Carnival of Venice is practically the most magnificent of all Venetian celebrations. It takes place every year, 10 days before the start of lent. Thousands of people would gather at the Piazza di San Marco to witness the parade and performances of people in majestic costumes and masks. It's colorful, loud, and most of all, fun.

I missed the festivities last year so I was extremely pleased to attend this year. It was dusk when I arrived and the sun had barely touched the horizon. I thought everything looked perfect under the dim light. But, as the night wore on, the grandiose costumes all around me seemed to glow even brighter. It must have been the wine that got to me, but since this was Carnivale, I couldn't be too sure.

So there I was somewhere in the middle of the piazza, staring at the cross atop the Basilica di San Marco. When I looked down directly below it, I saw a pair of gorgeous blue eyes behind a golden mask. They were staring straight at me, unwavering, and if somebody hadn't bumped into me, I would guess that I'd have kept on staring until the night ended. I got distracted by the fact that my shirt now sported a huge stain of red wine, and by the time I looked up, I was only able to catch a glimpse of dancing sapphire eyes before they turned away, and the regal golden dress that belonged to that body swished gently against the ground.

With a nearly empty wine glass in hand, I made to follow this mystery woman. I think I heard somebody apologizing behind me, but I wasn't paying attention. Pursuing her in the middle of all that celebration was tougher than I thought. Masqueraders, performers, tourists, and photographers surrounded me and I just simply lost her. I cursed myself, and I must have done so out loud because a couple of people turned their heads and looked at me like I was a raving lunatic. So I just gritted my teeth and finished my goddamned wine.

But as you know, it still wasn't over for this Mancini boy. I could still feel the wine burning in my throat when a figure wrapped in gold suddenly came up to me and kissed me full on the mouth. I obliged by returning it with the same gusto, and it must be noted that she tasted like expensive champagne. I just knew it was her.

When we parted, the crystal blue eyes confirmed it. Only about two seconds passed before she replaced the golden mask over her face... And then she left.

But I did see her face and she was beautiful. Extremely gorgeous. Hot, my friends. Really hot.

I was about to follow her, but I decided to just stand there and watch her walk away and disappear among the dancing crowd. I didn't need to follow her. We were meant to see each other again, that much I was sure of. Why else would she leave the address to her hotel room on my empty wine glass?

I woke up one morning, about five months ago, and I had this feeling that was so intense that it pulled me right out of my dreams and out of my bed. When I looked at myself I was covered in sweat and then I noticed something different about the situation: I had a fucking huge smile on my face.

It took me a while to remember what I was dreaming about, or whom, for that matter. It was rare that I get woken up by something that happened within a dream. It just bothered me that it would happen again--that I would be waking up with beads of sweat all over my body and wearing a ridiculous smile on my face. Needless to say, I was distracted the whole morning, even long after I had eaten breakfast prepared by Signora Campana.

I took a drive along the Amalfi Coast and the scene filled my senses as if I was making love with a beautiful woman. The high valleys beyond reminded me of the slow rise of her breasts, and as they descended into the sea, hers were married perfectly to the smoothness of her abs. The wind that touched my skin felt like the locks of her hair, and despite the salty breeze, it smelled sweetly of lavender.

Slowly, I closed my eyes and let the enchantment wash over me. Pictures of this unknown beauty flashed in my head and the effects spread across my body like a wild bush fire. Her lips, so soft, touched mine with a gentleness that I have longed for. Her skin was perfectly warm but it seemed to sear me like red hot iron. I was enthralled, captivated, enamored by this gradual descent into blissful oblivion...

And then somebody yelled, "STOP!"

I quickly opened my eyes, stepped on the goddamned breaks as hard as I could. My heart was beating rapidly and my mind raced its way back to reality. I looked to my right and saw that I was just a couple of meters away from going over the edge. I was stunned, knuckles white against the steering wheel, and I was covered in sweat. And what do you know? There it was again--that fucking huge smile on my face.

I love women. It doesn’t matter where they come from or what language they speak, what religion they follow or what perfume they wear. I love that some women have rich, dark brown curls like sweet Swiss chocolate, while some have long, golden locks like rays of morning sunshine. I love that some have eyes of vibrant Pacific blue, while some have dazzling emerald stunners. I love that there are women that have a passion for the outdoors, as well as those that prefer to entertain themselves with books. I, Devon Alexander Mancini, have never looked for perfection in women. I simply looked for diversity.

I have met many of my lady friends at the height of my lustful curiosity, the first one at the ripe age of 16. Some of my paesano friends consider me a late bloomer, but I always insist that I crossed that threshold at just the right time. I was a senior at my high school—a soft-spoken teen with the entire world at his feet. Nobody knew that I would have given just about anything at that time for Heather Jones to be at my feet instead.

Heather Jones was the single most desirable alpha female at my school. Everyone born with a penis followed her every move, every flick of her hair, and most importantly, every guy she dated. I’ve had the pleasure of talking to her personally at a friend’s birthday party, after being snubbed year after year. Truly she lived up to her reputation: she was gorgeous inside and out, her long, ebony hair shining like black diamonds, seductive eyelashes batting shamelessly over big brown eyes, and luscious pink lips quoting the likes of Shakespeare and Milton. She wore a revealing top that didn’t leave much to the imagination, but she rocked it out that night like a seasoned pro. It didn’t really bother her that every single male at the party—including me—were looking down at her cleavage, collectively praying for one glorious wardrobe malfunction. But it didn’t happen; and Heather Jones once again became a fantasy.

Needless to say, Heather Jones didn’t lead me into her pearly gates that year. She was a dream; and I needed more than an unconscious trick of the mind. I needed something tangible, something I can see, hear, smell, taste, and feel—all at the same time. I was a budding Italian-American senior boy with a sizeable trust fund, and yet my stash of Trojans has remained sadly untouched.

Sometimes, money just isn’t enough. But sometimes, it's all you really need... Just add an insatiable desire for sex and you're all set.