After spending the day exploring a couple of towns in the Italian Alps, near the Swiss border, the last thing I wanted to do was laundry, but I had no choice. I had run out of underwear the day before and I had one more pair of clean socks.
My train rolled into Milan’s Statizione Centrale shortly after six, which meant I had a few hours to do my wash, a few hours to sample the Milanese cuisine and a few hours to check out the night life.
I walked back to my hotel room, near the train station, tired, but satisfied after an enjoyable day hiking in the mountains. I flirted with the guy behind the front desk as usual when I asked for my key in my best Italian.
When I got to my room, I loaded up my backpack with a weeks’ worth of dirty laundry. I checked through my travel guide to get the address of the laundromat or lavanderia. In my wandering around Milan, I hadn’t seen a single one. I had seen enough laundry hanging on clotheslines, but no laundromat.
My guidebook suggested a place called Aqua e Sapone which meant water and soap. It was also somewhere in the vicinity train station as well.
It took me about fifteen minutes to walk to the laundromat. As I walked, I couldn’t help but smile as I thought about the spectacular scenery I had seen that morning. I was still having a hard time believing that my dream trip had become a reality. With three more weeks left, I had plans to leave for Venice the next morning, and then on to Florence, and Rome.
When I got to the laundromat, it was empty except for a dark haired browned-eyed young man sitting by the window listening to a walkman. He looked up and smiled at me as I walked in. He was probably no more than twenty and cute, but then all the dark haired men I had seen since arriving in Italy were making me crazy.
I found an empty washing machine and threw my clothes inside. Searching for the place to insert the coins, I couldn’t find anything. I scratched my head and fiddled with what I thought were the water and temperature controls. Nothing happened. As I stood there puzzled, the young man by the window sat and stared at my quizzically.
I hesitated before trying to ask the guy for help. In my week in Italy, every attempt at trying to speak the language ended up in total confusion. What little I learned in my Italian class was forgotten–nothing would come out of my mouth or I would blurt out a tangled mess of unintelligible words, half English and half Italian. People would stare at me with blank expressions, not understanding a word I said.
After kicking the washing machine in frustration a few times, I broke down and asked for help.
‘Scuza. Non funzione.’
The young man gave me a smile that sent my heart spinning. He set down his walkman and directed me to for lack of better words to what appeared to be the master control panel for the whole place.
There was a video monitor lit up with a series of numbers and instructions in Italian. I pulled my Italian phrase book out of my back pocket. It was useless. It could help me order pasta or ask where the bathroom was but this marvel of modern technology was not translatable.
‘Scusa, non capisco,’ I said.
‘Come?’
‘Parlo un po d’Italiano. Mi auito, per favore.’ I said.
The young man’s face creased into a smile as he pointed at the control panel.
‘Quale numero?’ he asked.
I glanced back at the machine. It was number nine. ‘Nove.’
He pressed the display panel until number nine was highlighted. He then reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. ‘Diecimille lire,’ he said, holding up a ten thousand lira note.
I reached into my wallet and pulled out the same, not believing it was almost six dollars to wash one load of clothes.
After directing me to insert my money into the machine, he grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the washing machine.
‘Sapone,’ he said, pointing at a bottle of laundry detergent that was sitting on top of the washers.
He then lifted a flap on top of my machine and pointed. I reached into my bag and pulled out a bottle of laundry detergent–at least I thought it was laundry detergent. I knew it was new and improved from what I read on the label. It looked and smelled like detergent, but for all I knew it could have been fabric softener.
I hesitated before I put the soap in the machine. If I was going to spend six bucks to wash my clothes, I was going to get everything clean. I pulled my T-shirt over my head and threw it into the washer. My new friend’s eyes grew openly amused. Deciding to throw caution to the wind and ignore all my mother’s advice about doing laundry and mix whites and darks, I unbuttoned my jeans, kicked off my sneakers, pulled off my socks and jeans, and threw them into the machine. His laughter floated up from his throat. I turned and couldn’t help but laugh as I poured the soap into the machine. He pressed one of the buttons and the machine began to fill with water.
My eyes clung to his, trying to analyze his reaction. In my few days in Italy, I had learned that a smile and an attempt at the language went a long way. Looking over the handsome young man, I thought I wouldn’t mind going all the way, but then, he probably thought I was some crazy American. Even I couldn’t believe I was standing in the laundromat in nothing but my Calvin’s.
‘Come si chiama?’ I asked. What’ your name?
‘Franco,’ he said.
‘Mi chiamo, Jim,’ I said. ‘Mille grazie, Franco.’ I smiled back,wanting to attempt more conversation, but I had already exhausted my limited vocabulary.
We both sat on the bench on the wall opposite the machines–me on one end; Franco on the other. He put his walkman back on and I pulled my walkman and a book out of my backpack and cranked my tape. Sitting there listening to Depeche Mode, I watched my clothes spin around in the washing machine.
Every now and then, I raised my eye to him to find Franco watching me. Each time he looked, my face split into a wide grin. I wasn’t sure if he was being friendly, or if he was interested. I had a hard time reading Italian men. A few days earlier, I made the mistake of staring a little too long at one hot guy on the streets of Milan. After he got all pissed off, I knew I was going to have to try and control my wandering eye.
A buzzer sounded and Franco got up to put his clothes in the dryer. My eyes followed as he walked past me. He had a nice firm, round butt that was packed into a pair of tight Levi’s. What I wouldn’t have given to have a nice piece of that ass, I thought, as he bent over and loaded his clothes into the dryer. When Franco came back, he sat on the bench next to me.
‘Che ascolta?’ he asked.
‘Depeche Mode,’ I said.
Franco shook his head.
I pulled off my headphones and pointed to Franco. ‘Listen,’ I said, pointing to the headphones.
He pulled off his headphones and put mine on. He in turn handed me his. I slipped them on and listened to his tape. I didn’t recognize the music. Franco grinned and gave me the thumbs up sign. We sat there listening to each other’s music, grinning at each other, for a few minutes. I was flattered by his interest, but the prolonged anticipation was almost unbearable. He reached over, I thought to give me back my headphones, but I was wrong. His hands landed on my chest and Franco began to fondle my pecs, flicking his fingers across my nipples.
‘Un boxer?’ he asked.
A boxer? He had to be kidding. I go to the gym fairly regularly when I’m at home, but I’m far from musclebound. I smiled and laughed. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Vado in palestra.’ I raised my arms and motioned like I was lifting weights.
Franco smiled again, but he didn’t take his hands off my chest. His wide-eyed innocence was merely a smoke screen. As his fingers brushed across my nipples over and over, I felt my cock starting to stir in my shorts. He continued to fondle my chest and my cock continued to grow. He glanced downward and saw what his handwork was doing to me.
Franco’s hands moved downward and he rubbed them across my taut abdomen. I was in heaven. My cockhead poked out past the elastic waistband of my shorts. Franco flashed me his mischievous grin again.
‘Ti piace?’ he asked.’
‘Si, mi piace moltissimo,’ I responded, nodding my head.
Franco smiled again, and then dropped to his knees in front of me. He grabbed the waistband of my Calvin’s and yanked them down around my ankles.
Before I could say anything, or think of anything to say, Franco was sucking my cock like there was no tomorrow. I was too shocked for words to even come out of my mouth. Even if I had thought of anything, with my limited Italian, I would not have been able to express it in words that Franco would have understood.
Worried that somebody would catch us, I tried to make Franco stop, but the more Franco sucked my cock, the more I was turned on. I soon stopped worrying about what anybody passing by might think. The row of washing machines in front of us obscured anybody’s view into the laundromat. If anybody happened to walk into the place, I would see them in time to let Franco know we had company.
‘Oh, shit. Suck that cock,’ I groaned.
Franco looked up, with my cock still in his mouth. He obviously didn’t understand what I had said, but I think he had the idea because he then plunged back down on my cock, taking it all the way down to my short hairs. I groaned even louder and he pulled back off, leaving only the head of my cock in his hot mouth. He swabbed his tongue around my sensitive cockhead. I thrust forward, forcing my throbbing fuckstick into his hot, moist mouth.
‘Take that cock. Come on. Take that cock.’
Reaching down, I tweaked Franco’s nipples through his T-shirt while he mouthed my dick. He looked up with my dick still in his mouth and stared directly into my eyes. I caught my reflection in the big brown pools.
Franco took my cock down to my bush one more time. I groaned loudly as my cock snaked down his hot throat. I pounded my cock in and out of Franco’s hot mouth until I was on the verge of cumming. I pulled out right before I dumped my load. I didn’t want to cum just yet. I wanted a taste of Franco’s thick Italian sausage that was tenting his jeans.
Franco plunged down on my dick one more time. I slipped my hands under his armpits and motioned for him to get up. He looked disappointed as my cockhead popped out of his mouth.
‘Baciami.’
As Franco stood up, I pressed my mouth to his full, moist lips. I ran my hands through Franco’s silky dark brown hair, while staring into his eyes. Franco stared back, his long thick eyelashes fluttering. I wondered what was running through his head. In the back of mind, I was still worried about getting caught. I tried put those fears out of my mind, as Franco’s tongue probed my mouth.
Franco laid back down on the bench. I laid down on top of him. Our tongues dueled as we listened to the sounds of water churning in the washing machines. Reaching down, I felt Franco’s stiff meat through his jeans. As we made out, I fumbled with his fly for a few minutes, trying to free his boner. I pulled his T-shirt up and over his head. He undid the buttons to his jeans, and pushed them to his thighs. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. His thick uncut cock slapped against his smooth belly as I tugged down his pants.
I pushed back Franco’s foreskin, exposing his bright red flared cockhead and then swiped my tongue across the head of his cock, lapping up a drop of dick-honey that had dribble out his piss slit. Franco was groaning and muttering in Italian. I didn’t understand anything he was saying. I jammed my tongue under the folds of skin that were bunched up behind his cockhead, licking under his foreskin. Franco cried out.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a buzzer on the washing went off, letting me know my wash was done. Franco pointed at the washing machine. I looked up at him and tried to suppress my laughter.
‘Oh, the dryer. L’ aspeta,’ I said. I told Franco it could wait. I then engulfed his cock down to his dense dark pubes.
Using my mouth to push Franco’s foreskin further down his cock shaft, I licked around his sensitive cockhead. As I worked Franco’s cock with my mouth, he thrashed underneath me. Precum was flowing heavily out of Franco’s piss slit. I lapped up every drop of his juices, then took Franco down to his bush again. I resisted the urge to gag, as his thick cock slid further down my throat. Franco cried out a barrage of words. This time I recognized a few of the curse words that I hadn’t learned in class.
I let up on Franco’s dick and began to lap at his low-hanging cum-filled nutsack. Taking one of his nuts into my mouth, I rolled it around on my tongue. After I slicked up Franco’s ballsack with my spit, I began to explore the hairy crevice between his legs with my tongue.
I licked further down his crack, all the while breathing in his intoxicating man scent. As Franco spread his legs further apart, giving me better access to his asscrack, I licked up and down his crack like a man possessed. It didn’t take long before the hair lining his crevice was slicked back with saliva.
Franco then reached down and grasped his asscheeks and pulled them apart, exposing his hair-ringed asshole. He didn’t have to tell me what he wanted. I dove into his crack, face first and ran my tongue around his asshole, feeling it twitch with every swipe of my tongue. Franco moaned when my tongue pushed through his ass-ring. As I tongue fucked him for several minutes, he gasped for breath and was cursing up a storm in Italian. Even though I didn’t understand a lot of what he was saying, it was apparent he was enjoying himself as much as I was.
As I looked up at Franco, my eyes locked on his. Despite speaking different languages and coming from different countries, I understood what he wanted. I wanted the same thing. I wanted to feel my cock inside his hot ass.
‘Ficcami in culo,’ said Franco. ‘Fuck me up the ass.’
I reached over to my bag that was lying on the floor and pulled a condom and a small tube of lube.
‘Il preservitivo,’ I said. Franco smiled when I showed him the condom. I rolled the rubber down my rod and then greased up Franco’s hole.
Motioning for Franco to get down on the floor in front of the washing machines, I grabbed one of his towels from off the top of one the machines and spread it out on the floor.
Franco laid down on the towel and lifted his legs in the air. I knelt down between his legs and ran my cockhead up and down his crack, gently nudging my prick at his hole. When he loosened up, I pressed forward and popped my cock head through his sphincter.
‘Oh mio Dio,’ he said.
I inched my shaft deep inside his bowels until my balls were slapping at his ass. Franco smiled at me while I pressed forward. I inched my dick slowly back out, feeling Franco open up to me.
‘Piu in fretta,’ he said.
Ramming back into Franco, I built up the tempo of my thrusts. I grabbed a hold of his ankles as I pounded his ass. Franco’s head rocked back and forth on the towel as I fucked him.
‘Dai! Dai!’ screamed Franco.
I dicked him faster and faster until he was trembling beneath me. Then a jet of hot white cum spurt out of Franco’s cock, coating his belly with his hot spunk. My own cum was churning deep inside me, it wasn’t long before I erupted in two quick blasts, filling the rubber with my hot spunk.
Spent, I lay on top of Franco gasping for breath. My softening cock slowly slid out of him. Grasping the condom, I tossed it in a nearby trash can that was filled with empty detergent bottles. Franco leaned up and kissed me.
We got up a few minutes later. Franco wiped off his cum coated belly. I pulled on my shorts and Franco helped me figure out how to get the dryer working.
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