A is for Ancient

Ancient. That’s how Arlin felt today, walking the streets of the eternal city. Everything was fine and dandy yesterday: the sun was shining, the famous Roman sandwiches were plentiful and full of truffle cream, children’s laughter didn’t transform into screams, and the hordes of tourists didn’t cross his path.

But today everything rubbed him the wrong way. Must be the weather, the glum skies, and the never-ending rain that reminded him of London, which he hadn’t visited for too long, or that he forgot his trusty umbrella in the hotel, and the abomination, he bought at the first kiosk when the rain started, was twisted inside out by the first blow of wind from Tiber River. What kind of Londoner, even a former Londoner, leaves the hotel without an umbrella on a cloudy day in December, hmm?

Must be the age, Arlin thought. He has never been bothered by the weather before, but today he felt like the oldest living man in Rome. Which could not be true, he reasoned with himself, and by far, as in any European city with its aging population, pushing sixty puts him right on the median or such. Math was never his forte, but music was. After his performing career was over, the esteemed professor settled into teaching piano jazz in a small university town in a lesser-known part of New England, and never felt old, despite being surrounded by youth day and night. Not just taught, he turned gifted kids into geniuses, into the next generation to fill the concert halls of the world with divine sounds followed by loud bravos. Or bravi, if one wishes to be grammatically correct.

But nothing deserved a single bravo today, starting from his morning coffee, served unacceptably warm, or his toast, served exceptionally dry, or butter, improbably cold and impossible to spread. The boutique hotel near Via Margutta, praised for its exceptional service, was having a one-off day, as the chatty receptionist later gossiped to Arlin. The morning cook had a family emergency and left for Tuscany with the first train, and Giulia, his less capable replacement, managed to screw up even the simplest tasks. Oh bother, tsked Arlin over the lukewarm coffee, as he eyed Giulia’s ample arse, bouncing underneath her long floral skirt. That bottom belonged over his knee for all the morning mishaps.

The rainy day only dampened his spirits further. Arlin attempted to cheer himself up with a long hot bath and a dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, but the flick of the familiar floral skirt by the kitchen door hinted that the same Giulia, exhausted and frustrated, was working her second shift. Arlin braced himself for the worst and ordered the most classic Spaghetti alla Carbonara. Besides Giulia’s usual problems with the temperature control, the result was finger-licking good, with crunchy and flavorful guanciale and abundant Pecorino Romano. With that, Arlin’s thoughts wandered into a different kind of fantasy: a good girl spanking.

When in Rome, such fantasy called for an original setting: in ancient Rome, a gray-bearded Senator Arlinus Maximus summons his female slave Giulia to strip naked and kneel at his feet, waiting for her evening punishment. By Jupiter, this luscious arse won’t stay pale for long!