“Gee, I want that one!” shouts Monique, when she sees the guy sitting at the campsite barrier. Full Italian, olive-tanned, wildly curly, dark hair, yes, her type, I know. She gets out -normally I have to arrange the place at the campsite- walks around the car and asks him if there will be a place for us. Duh, no spot on June 30, I think laughing.

Grinning broadly, drinking her in in her thin cotton, wide, bare-shouldered, deep-décolleté dress and flip-flops, he nods his manes and answers her English with “vous parlez Français? Moi c’est Claudio”. He gestures with his head to the little office and without taking his eyes off Mo for a moment he points out to me where to park with a hand behind his back.

Somewhat later they come out and walk up the path. I am given a vague gesture to follow as they laugh and talk in fast French. He points to a sandy, grassy area near the toilet block and just outside the high fence around the pool, a single spot, a little further from the other tent sites. Mo nods that this is big enough for our tent. He smiles flirtatiously at her for a moment and – is that horny and covetous? – walks sturdily back to the reception desk.

“His name is Claudio and he sleeps in a tent with his cousin Ernesto near his uncle’s caravan, who is the caretaker here. He’s studying chemistry at the Sapienza and I can see from his eyes that he’s getting mad about me. We have to eat at the restaurant here tonight, Ernesto serves there and gives us a discount and they come and drink wine with us, there.”

“Ho, ho girl! You got it for him, don’t you?”

“Did you see his eyes? And his hands? And his beautiful curly hair? It makes me hot, very hot.”

We were wandering through southern Europe, that summer of 1971, in our old Ford Anglia Sportsman (yes, the one with a spare wheel on the bumper), and had driven up the road to the Castelfusano Country Club near Lido di Ostia, thinking it would probably be far too posh for us. Now, in 2021 I’m sure it will be, but not then, it was plain and simple. And we were on our own, only later that week Belgians with a castle size tent and a vicar from Meppel in one of those Kip egg caravans arrived. But they were placed a lot further on.

I put up our faded blue bungalow tent, with scorch marks from the San Giovanni fireworks display in Florence a few days ago, where we had camped on the city campsite just below the shooting range on Piazzale Michelangelo.

Then again, Ernesto at the restaurant spoke only English and taught me that chicken ‘pollo’ should not be pronounced with a thick Rotterdam double l and a w at the end but with the tongue tip against the palate. ‘He’s flirting with me’ I observed from his grin with horny corners on his mouth. Could become fun yet, here.

It was getting a little dim when Claudio joined us and Ernesto brought four glasses and a couple of red Valpolicello’s. “I’m done, Zio let me off for the day. Let’s go sit by your tent.”

We walk around the pool fence, Claudio checking that he has locked the gate and Mo lighting a few mosquito candles by the tent. The boys sit cross-legged on the ground at our feet. No, they don’t want to sit on our chairs. Lower seated they can study our crotches, Mo spreads a bit and her short dress lifts somewhat.

Ernesto fiddles open a bottle and pours us a drink. A complicated conversation ensues, where we talk bilingually to both and translate between ourselves. Soon Mo is talking to Claudio in French, gently flirting and I am talking to Ernesto in English. He wants to know everything about our circle of friends, if the men kiss each other, if we can feel the girls freely and so on. I tell him about our circle of friends and how freely we treat each other’s bodies. I ask him what it’s like here and he complains that everyone is so reserved, especially the boys. Even on hugging they keep their bulges distanced.

I stroke his lips with my fingers, wink at him and bend over. He flinches when I press my lips to his, but lets me. My intuition is right, this one is not only deep in the closet, but still in the factory packaging.

Claudio interferes and says he’s only kissed girls, all his college buddies are virgins, they say. He would have liked to have been at Woodstock or Kralingen, last year and fooled around there. Surprised, that we lived less than a mile away from that park and were there for all three days. And friends slept with us in our apartment. He raises one eyebrow questioningly, “five, without a condom” I confess and Mo surpasses me “eight” and blushes.

Mo asks what fuck is in Italian. “Scopiare” translates Claudio and Mo says it after him, dreamily and slowly “Scooo-piii-aaa-reee”, as if she feels it in her lower belly. In their speedos, something grows.

“Do you have the key to the pool with you? I want to skinny-dip.” When Claudio holds up his keychain, she stands up, slides down her shoulder straps, her dress falls to the floor and she stands naked before us, grinning.

She lifts Claudio, pulls down his shorts, lets her hand slide over his swim trunks, tightening them. She helps him out of his polo shirt and strokes his bulge again. “Come here” she says and puts his hands on her nipples.

Ernesto watches with wide eyes as I undress him and enter his swim trunks with my hand. “Doing that to me too” I whisper to him. He looks like a kid in a candy store when I feel him stroke my manhood, uncomfortably, as if he doesn’t even dare to do that to himself.

And then the four of us walk naked to the gate and slide into the water. “Don’t make too much noise, Zio is still at the restaurant!” warns Ernesto. We swim crosswise over and under each other, Claudio mainly to feel Mo’s tits and Ernesto on his back in successful attempts to make our cocks touch each other.

I press him against the edge of the tub with my belly and begin to kiss him while frotting. Unaccustomed, his lips open and let me demonstrate how the dance of tongues goes. He learns quickly and between our bellies our rods slide against each other. “Never done it?” I whisper between gasps, he shakes his head and sighs sagely.