Daddy's Dirty Toy

NORA Readjusting the large sunhat I just bought, I grip my Italian travel guide and phrasebook and make my way through the crowded streets of Venice. The place is packed, and even though I’m in a cute sundress with strappy sandals, I still feel completely out of place with all these beautiful Italian women walking around in their heels and big, dark sunglasses. Glancing at the map on my phone, I see the art gallery I’m trying to get to, but I’ll be damned if I know which one of these small, twisty side streets is going to get me there. Maybe this spur-of-the-moment trip to Italy wasn’t the best idea, but after graduating high school, I’d been desperate to get away and try something new. The money my grandparents gave me as a graduation present, probably thinking I was going to put it towards college, went straight to buying a plane ticket and a hotel room for two weeks. My parents were less than thrilled, but since I was eighteen, there wasn’t anything they could do. My rebellious ass got its way, and now I’m alone in a foreign country and can’t seem to be able to even read a damn map. Letting out a frustrated groan, I put my phone back in my bag and take a look around. All the gorgeous, old architecture is starting to look the same, and even though I’d happily move here in a second, I’d like to at least know where the f**k I am. I scan the street signs, hoping that they’ll magically start to make sense, but no such luck. I’m about to turn back around when I catch sight of the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. I learned right after stepping off the plane that Italy is in no short supply of drop-dead gorgeous people, but this guy puts them all to shame. He’s leaning casually against a stone wall in a suit that probably cost more than my entire trip. The top buttons of his dress shirt are undone, giving him a laid-back sexy look, but the chiseled jaw and wide set of his shoulders are giving off all sorts of sexy, dangerous vibes. The dark sunglasses aren’t helping. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, and not knowing is doing all kinds of things to my body. I tell myself to move, to not look like the stereotypical, stupid tourist, but my feet aren’t budging. Instead, I’m standing in the middle of a cobblestone street somewhere in Venice with my n*****s hardening beneath the thin fabric of my dress while I soak right through my damn panties. The loud honk of a horn has me nearly jumping out of my skin. I let out a yelp of pure terror and scurry to the sidewalk. By the time I look up, the mysterious man is gone, and I’m more disappointed than I should be. I mean, I saw the guy for a couple of minutes, and he probably wasn’t even looking at me, and here I am acting like a lovesick i***t. God, Italy is starting to get under my skin. Next thing you know, I’ll be binging mafia movies and dreaming about being seduced by a don. “Get a grip,” I mutter to myself and head down the next right I come to. To hell with this, one of these damn side streets has to lead to the gallery. I walk until my feet are screaming at me to just sit down in the middle of the cobblestone street and wait for someone to come run me over and put me out of my misery. Looking around, I realize that the street is completely deserted and the sun is getting lower in the sky. It’s not until I see the group of young men headed my way that I start to worry. This can’t be good. I turn and speed walk as fast as my chunky wedge sandals can manage on this centuries-old road. Turns out, it’s not all that fast. I manage a very slow hobble on my sore feet, which means I’m soon surrounded by a wall of muscle that doesn’t look at all friendly. I doubt this is the Italian welcome wagon, so I give a small smile and a ridiculous wave and hope they’ll take that as the I’ll just be on my way goodbye that I mean it to be. I take one step back and run into what feels like a brick wall. Looking up, I see a blonde Italian leering at me. Unlike the sexy man from earlier, this guy just makes me feel squeamish, and I try like hell to think of anything on me that I can use as a makeshift weapon. My terrified brain can only come up with screaming and tossing my travel guide at him while I make the world’s slowest getaway, cursing the super cute sandals I just had to have and wishing I had my sneakers on. I’d like to say I make it about ten feet before they catch me, but I’m pretty sure it’s more like two. I curse my stupidity for not paying attention and for holding on so tightly to my virginity when it’s just going to end up being ripped from me by this grinning asshat. The idea of it has me so pissed that when I feel his strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, I scream like hell and elbow him in the stomach as hard as I can. I’m not expecting much, so when he lets go and I fall to the hard ground, I’m more stunned than hurt. Holy s**t, it worked? I’m all set to stand and put my fists up like a real tough-as-nails street fighter when I catch sight of the asshat’s face. I quickly realized two things. One, someone is standing behind me, and, two, whoever the f**k it is has all the bad guys scared shitless. Wonderful, so a super, super bad guy is standing behind me, and I’m still splayed out on my ass, nursing a sore bottom. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but this does sort of fit my life. I seem to be a magnet for bad, embarrassing s**t happening to me. It all started in first grade when I tripped at recess and fell in a puddle. I spent the rest of the day with a wet ass, and those little fuckers never let me forget it.