A big wooden door leads off the street. A cobbled walkway leads into a courtyard. In the middle is an old stone fountain and the flowing waters echo against the walls and make it sound grander than it is.

A large door opens inside and we are in a cool dark entrance hall that has a great big marble statue of a naked boy laying on his side. I stare at its erect penis that is tiny but evocative. “That is Gaddo,” he says, “by Torquato della Torre, a secret known only to the Santorelli family, so tell nobody.” He nods, even though I haven’t said anything, and he takes it for granted that I have understood. “Come,” he says, grabbing my hand. “My rooms are upstairs.”

We climb a terrazzo staircase, trodden by a thousand virgin boys, and worn down by their brave footsteps. “You must trust me,” he says.  I know nothing about the Santorelli family, and realise that he is very wealthy, and I don’t trust him, yet I still follow. 

Halfway up the staircase is a veranda that looks out over the rooftops. He stops and faces me, a shadow against the evening sun that is slipping behind the clock tower. “Do you think I am handsome?” he asks. I say that he is.

We climb higher, twisting steps that lead somewhere, until we can go no further. He opens a door and pulls me inside. “I am a Santorelli,” he boasts, “and I claim you as my own.” It is beautiful, poetic and fucking weird.

He tells me to take my shirt off, and when I do, I hear a thousand boys laughing at my pale skinny body. 

“What do you like about me most?” he asked.

“It is the fact that you are naive and can be incredibly indiscreet with the people around you,” I replied.

“Is that all? Don’t you find any part of me remotely attractive?”

“I do,” I said, “but what’s the use of having exceptional legs if you don’t use them to your advantage?”

I wish I knew what you were thinking? Is it that you don’t like me, and that I’m a complete prick? Or do you like me? I can’t tell. Are you absorbed in something completely different? Like blueberries, or Coca Cola, or playing Fortnite, or watching Homicide: New York? Or maybe even thinking about a girl who you might want to get off with? Or a boy? But your face gives nothing away, it reveals nothing, nada, and because of that I get frustrated and angry, and when I provoke you, there is nothing you can say, and merely shrug your shoulders instead.

You sit patiently, like a dog awaits its master, and you want to tell me about something that you have done during the day. Like preparing a meal, cleaning the bathroom, painting a wall, or a new book that you think I will like.