No, this isn’t a “dumb blonde” joke, but a story of a raucous night with two of my closest friends from university. One evening, the three of us–one blonde, one brunette, and one wearing glasses–went out for aperitivo to one of our favorite spots, where each drink comes with a personal pizza for a grand total of €5 each. We sat al fresco, a slight summer breeze rustling the waxy serviettes, and the tables around us quickly filled. Just to our left, at a table no more than 6 inches away from ours (the bar really tried to make the most of its outdoor real estate), sat three cute boys–one blonde, one brunette, and one wearing glasses. Furtive glances, peppered with quick peaks at the boys, were shared between us girls, and it wasn’t long before our sheer proximity–or perhaps conspicuous attraction–led us to strike up a conversation. The boys were locals, who, although in their late twenties and early thirties, had never lived elsewhere than this small comune (they’re what someone who went to uni in the states might call a “townie”). I’m into Brunette boy; my blonde friend, who we’ll call Teresa, is into Blonde boy; and my brunette friend, who we’ll call Monica, is into Bespectacled boy. Due soon at a friend’s party, we invite them to join us.
Fast forward a few hours and a few too many shots of Sambuca (absolutely disgusting), and Brunette boy and I teeter out to the balcony for a breath of fresh air. Blonde boy is smoking a cigarette on the other end, but we pay him no mind as we take this moment away from the crowd to finally kiss. We can’t have been making out for more than two minutes when Brunette pulls away, looks me in the eye and says, “Go kiss him.”
“What?” I respond, thumbing at Blonde, “Him?” Brunette nods.
I cautiously inch my way over to Blonde, who snubs out his cigarette. “Do you want me to?” I ask–consent always! “Si,” Blonde affirms.
As Blonde and I kiss, Brunette watches us, before grabbing my hand and pulling all three of us back inside and into the bedroom right next to the balcony.
I refuse to use any baseball-based euphemisms, so let’s say things are just starting to get interesting when the bedroom’s owner starts banging on the door: “Get out.” In various states of undress, the three of us sheepishly slide out of the room. As I take a moment to gather myself and quickly gossip with my friends, Brunette hops on the phone–a call that quickly turns heated.
I ask Blonde what’s going on. “He’s on the phone with his girlfriend.” What the fuck?
“Don’t you think that’s a non-insignificant detail that was worth mentioning three hours ago?” I angrily respond.
“Well…”
“You have one too don’t you?”
“Si,” Blonde affirms, not as guiltily as one might hope.
With a quick “fuck you” to Blonde and another to Brunette, still on the phone, I leave the party fully over Italian men (this sentiment did not stick).
Teresa hooks up with Blonde boy. Monica hooks up with Bespectacled boy on the couch at 4 AM.
