Rome in the 60s

To be a young man in Rome in the early 60s was a delicious paradox. Sex was everywhere except within the social confines of dating a nice girl from a good family. So, in the Italian tradition, we young bloods sought out the companionship of whores.

Marco and I had just turned eighteen, and spent that summer cruising in his Fiat. Nine o’clock and the streets were dark an quiet, and girls strolled, stood on corners, waiting. The thrill of a brazen slut baring her breasts beneath a street lamp or lifting a skirt to show her hairy pussy to a passing customer was everywhere.

Via Aventino was our favorite spot, a hooker hangout not too far from the Coliseum. It was there I picked up Theresa, a young Bolognese whore. The girls from Bologna are famous for their oral skills, which are nicknamed Boccino, and the minute she began to speak in her broad Bolognese accent, I was turned on. At eighteen, I’d only heard of blow-jobs… and could hardly wait to experience the real thing.

Marco and his girl were in the front seat, and in a few seconds he was riding her, as she squealed. The unmistakable squish of her wetness and his heaving thrusts excited me.

Expertly, Theresa slid down my pants and underwear. She actually smiled as she held my cock and playfully squeezed my balls. Just as I was contemplating her nearness and inhaling her cheap perfume, she buried my dick between her heavily-crimsoned lips. For a second, I just lay there in the delicious warmth of her mouth. But soon she began sucking me, relentlessly and rhythmically, until the throbbing tip of my cock touched the back of her throat. And when she began massaging my balls, as she slurped down my cock, I came in an explosive white hot burst.

The girls giggled between themselves. The small cramped car reeked of cum and cunt. The girls refused our offer to drop them somewhere, hopped out of the car and clattered down the cobble stoned streets on high heels.

The next night I had a date with Martina, my almost fiancée. She was a sweet, well brought-up girl, but the height of our sex life was slow dancing to American music, my persistent erection pressing into her shapely loins. Our kisses were long-winded, wet and never led to anything but chapped lips. The thought of marrying Martina depressed me.

After my escapade with Theresa, Martina particularly bored me that night. Finally, when we were alone in her parents’ living room, I uncharacteristically pulled her down on my lap. Her laugh was that of an innocent girl. Keeping up the mood, I began to lightly tickle her, beneath her dimpled chin, under her arms. As she giggled and squirmed, I maneuvered my hand to cup her firm young tit.

Meanwhile, my fingers aimed for and directly found her nipple, which I proceeded to pinch and pull to hardness. Her moans resounded with pain and fear and pleasure, but she wriggled off my lap.

I went out in my father’s car that night and got a bold whore on Longo Tevere and we went to a sleazy pensione.

Liliana came out of the bath, wearing lacy black underwear, stockings, and high heels. She carried a basin and proceeded to wash my genitals.

She was pleased with my easy erection and pulled me down to the bed. She unhooked her bra, allowing her tits out. I began to suck her dark nipples, and meantime she opened her legs and guided me inside.

She tightened her cunt as I pounded away. Clamping her legs behind my back, she theatrically groaned and moaned and even managed a convincing shudder as I shot her full of sperm.

I learned a lot that long-ago summer. The girls discouraged mouth kissing and never let me put my fingers inside them, to avoid scratches. But sucking and fucking were unlimited and as varied as the women hawking themselves for but a few dollars.

Last summer, I was again in Rome and in my rented car decided to check out my old haunts. A lifetime had passed… now half the girls were really boys… gorgeous young South Americans with tits and dicks beneath their dresses. Dispassionately, I surveyed the scene. Until my eyes caught sight of a pretty and unmistakably real girl, who opened the car door with an inviting grin.

Without bickering, I agreed to her price of fifty dollars, and said, “Just get in the back. All I want is to watch you masturbate.”

She shrugged in agreement. Pulling up her tight miniskirt, she revealed a dark thatch of pubic hair and plunged a finger in. Half closing her eyes, she buried two fingers deep within. Although I’d intended no contact with a whore (because of fear of disease), watching her play with herself got me too excited to retain my resolve.

For twenty dollars more, she agreed to suck me off. Maybe I’m jaded, but this incident had none of the thrill of Theresa’s blow-job. Nevertheless, her powerful sucking brought me to an orgasm.

Since that long-ago Roman summer, I’ve had many different women. But it is with real nostalgia that I remember the bumbling guy I was and my first initiations into the pleasures of sex. And when I see street corner hookers, I think of the Roman girls of the night.