My friend CL. and I are at the toga party, a costume party (a kind of a Baccanale 2.0). My friend Cl is wrapped around a guy, and I already know how the night is going to end up. In the best case scenario, I’ll end up talking to the ugly freckly guy who hasn’t left my side. It’s going to be even worse. By midnight I can’t find my friend, I try to call her but she never answers, she’s obviously busy.
At this point I am faced with two options: I get a lift (with whom? They are all drunk) or I get a taxi (but it’s going to cost a king’s ransom from Pisana). But the solution is round the corner: the ugly freckly one offers me a lift home. During our journey home he start his rant about a girl he had a relationship with, a “manipulative narcissist” who has taken advantage of his financial status (I wonder why all the ugly ones are loaded). eventually his older brother convinced him to dump her. There, his brother.
S. is a famous actor in his fifties, a true macho with grey hair, very reassuring. The day after the three of us are at lunch together at Gina Cucina. S. treats his brother like an idiot, he is not wrong, he really is. After lunch I get back to work and start to write. At 18.00 I get a call from S. telling me his is at bar Euclide and asks if I want to join him for a drink. I go. After the second drink, S. starts his recital pretending to be my jealous husband (actors can be rather strange) “You cheated on me with him … what did you wear?”, I play his game and answer: “the fuchsia mini dress you gave me for our anniversary”. After my line he asks if I really have a fuchsia mini dress and the answer is yes. We get another Spritz, and with some Dutch courage he asks if he can come over to my place to try on that dress. “You know, I’m an old faggot but I can’t tell anybody, with you I feel free. But please call me Sandrina”.
I order a Martini, I need it. He tells me he’s been in a 10 year-long relationship with an actress, a little bit older than him, but there is nothing physical between them. The poor woman, although menopausal, would still like to have some action. Once, she greeted him dressed up as a mistress, latex bodysuit, whip and dog collar but he just had sex with Giorgio, a guy he hooked up with on Grindr, so she just gave up. She had a breakdown. She started psychotherapy wondering, amidst copious tears, if her problem was her small labia. After which she booked an appointment for a labioplasty. We go home, I open my wardrobe and she (S.) glows. I show her my little fuchsia dress and without a second thought she tries it on. “Do I look ok? You know … although I’m no spring chicken I’m still game. Young boys still want me. I’m still attractive, aren’t I?” I ask her whether she is active or passive but I already know the answer: “I am a faggot, honey. Can I ask you favour?”