I was thrilled by this; I was falling for her. She was classy and beautiful. She told me to call her the next night. So the whole next day as I tramped around Florence looking at paintings and drinking espressos, I imagined that I was on the verge of romance with a real Florentine. So I called her that night and she said, “Jonathan, something has come up and I’m leaving tonight for a week. Perhaps I’ll see you in New York.”
“Sure,” I said, and we exchanged addresses and then we rang off. I was brokenhearted. During dinner the night before she had alluded to a broken affair with a man in Rome, but it must have been back on. But the whole thing anyway had been a delusion on my part, something to keep me going, and now I was back to being alone and miserable. So the old dipsomaniac decided it was time to make an appearance. It had only been a matter of time. I started off with several pints of beer and then drank a bottle of wine during dinner, and so then, good and drunk, I tramped out to La Cascine, this park, where I had read in my guidebook that transvestite prostitutes could be found at night.
On my way there, I stopped at a concession stand and bought a pack of cigarettes and three cans of beer, which I put in my pockets, and then I finally came to the road that went through the park. The road where the transvestites stood in the shadows by the trees. I was back with my people! This is where I belong, I thought, not with the Giulias of the world. I can’t make it with the Giulias. Too classy.
So like one of the hookers, I leaned against a tree in the darkness and sipped beers and smoked cigarettes. I watched the men pull up in their little Italian cars and the transvestites would approach and sometimes disappear with the men if negotiations were successful. I always like watching these things, and it’s the same everywhere in the world—this haggling over money with whores. And I felt at peace. I was standing in mud from all the rain. I could smell it. I was part of the earth. So much of the time I worry about getting into trouble, but then when I am in trouble, I feel good because I’m not worrying about it anymore.
A hooker approached me. She was tall and wore a dark wig. She had a black miniskirt and a leather jacket. She was kind of husky, and her makeup was as thick as a small phone book. But she had nice eyes.
“Buona sera, signoria,” I said and sipped my beer.
She said something I didn’t catch, which I think meant blowjob because she added a sucking motion with her fist aimed at her mouth.
“No, grazie,” I said.
Then she got right in front of me and dragged her thumb along my eyebrows, which are somewhat albinish and often curious to people. “Bèllo,” she said, which was very tender, and I liked having my eyebrows stroked. Then she grabbed my wrist playfully but hard— she was quick—and somehow the miniskirt was up and she put my hand on her cock. The thing wasn’t erect but was remarkably thick, and in the dim light I got a glimpse of it—uncircumcised.
She smiled at me with allure. “No, grazie,” I said with politesse, and she let go of my hand and then traced her thumb along my eyebrows again and walked off with style, a swing of her hips.
An odd laugh came out of me. Then, making sure she wasn’t looking, I poured my beer on my hand to disinfect it. I figured the highlight of my evening had occurred, so I began to stagger home. I passed a disco at the beginning of the park where young beautiful girls, eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds, were jumping over puddles to get to the entrance. I loved watching them do that. These little leaps of their beautiful legs.
Then I walked along the Arno, finished off the rest of my beer, and thought of jumping in. Not a serious thought, but the rushing orange-brown water looked inviting. It would be like a sudden yet violent sleep.
I made it back to the hotel. In the morning I was sick, my eyes were jaundiced and swimming in bile, but I felt better in a way. I knew I had to get back on the water wagon. I had twelve days left on my trip and I wanted to survive them. There were things I had to be alive for: my friends, my parents, my son.
That afternoon I went and saw Michelangelo’s David. His uncircumcised penis looked exactly like the sweet transvestite’s. I wrote in my journal, “I have only two Italian penises to go by, but I think they are of an unusual thickness when flaccid.”
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, AUGUST 2001
Copyright © 2000 by Jonathan Ames
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
Much of this book originally appeared in the New York Press in
slightly different form. “The Playboys of Northern New Jersey”
appeared in Word. Some of the names have been changed in
deference to friends and subjects.
The New York Times article on page 199 has been reprinted with
permission. Copyright © 1998 by the New York Times Co.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Crown edition as follows:
Ames, Jonathan.
What’s not to love?: the adventures of a mildly perverted young
writer / by Jonathan Ames.
eISBN : 978-0-307-43019-9
1. Ames, Jonathan—Homes and haunts—New York (State)—New
York. 2. City and town life—New York (State)—New York—
Humor. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Social life and customs—20th
century. 4. Authors, American—20th century. I. Title.
PS3551.M42 Z475 2000
813’.54—dc21 99-055758
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