I just got back from a semester abroad in europe, and let
me tell you, it truly was the most magical and amazing experience
of my entire life. The French countryside was like something
out of a storybook, the Roman ruins were magnificent, and
the men, well, European men are by far the most romantic in
the world.
You American men all think you're so suave and sophisticated.
Well, think again! European men make you look like the immature,
inexperienced little children you are. They really know how
to make a woman feel special over there. Unlike the so-called
men here in the States, European men know how to treat a woman
right.
For one thing, European men aren't afraid to come up and
talk to you. And they know how to start slow, with a nice
cup of Italian espresso or a long walk on some historic street.
They know the places you can't find in any tourist guide.
They know the whole history of the cities in which they live;
who the fountains are named after, who the statues are.
I remember one unforgettable night in Athens, I sat and listened
to a Greek sailor for hours as he told me about the countless
men who fought over Helen back in ancient times. Afterward,
he told me he loved his homeland even more now that he'd seen
it through my eyes. I ask you, would an American man ever
say something as deep and beautiful as that?
European men know the most romantic little cafés and bistros
and trattorias, candlelit places where you can be alone and
drink the most fantastic wine. They tell you what's on the
menu and what you should try. And the whole time, they're
looking deep into your eyes, like you're the only woman on
the entire planet. What woman could resist a man like that?
Then, after a moonlit stroll along the waterfront and a kiss
in the doorway of their artist's loft, you find yourself unable
to; well, I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
I'll never forget my magical semester abroad. One thing's
for sure; I'm ruined for American men forever!
I'm a 25-year-old carpenter living in Rome, and I don't mind
telling you that I get all the action I can handle. I'm not
all that handsome or well-dressed, and I'm certainly not rich.
In fact, my Italian countrywomen could take me or leave me.
But that's just fine, because Rome gets loads of tourist traffic,
and American co-eds traveling through Europe are without a
doubt the easiest lays in the world.
Being European gives me a hell of an advantage. I'm not sure
why, but there's something about the accent that opens a lot
of doors. All you have to do is go up to them, act a little
shy and say, "Whould hyou like to go with me, Signorina, for
a café?" I actually have to thicken up my accent a little,
but they never, ever catch on.
After a cheap coffee, which to them always tastes better
than anything they've ever had, because they're in Europe,
it's time to walk them. Now, all they know about Rome is what
they've read in Let's Go, so you can pretty much just make
up a whole bunch of shit. It's fun to see how much they'll
swallow: As long as I refer to Italy as "my homeland" and
other Italians as "my people," they'll believe pretty much
anything. I don't know who most of the local statues are,
so I tell the muffins they're all great artists and poets
and lovers. Once, just for the hell of it, I told a psychology
major from the University of Maryland that a public staircase
was part of the Spanish Steps, which she'd never even heard
of. Another time, I told this blonde from Michigan State that
the public library was the Parthenon, and she cooed like I'd
just given her a diamond.
For dinner, I usually take them to some cheap little hole
in the wall, someplace deserted where not even the cops eat.
American girls think candlelight means "romance," not "deteriorating
public utilities," so they just poke their nipples through
their J. Crew sweaters and never notice that there's no electricity.
Just as well, because Roman restaurants aren't exactly the
cleanest. After a bunch of fast-talk about the menu, I get
them the special, which is usually some anonymous pasta with
spinach and day-old shrimp, and whatever cheap, generic, Pope's-blood
chianti's at the bottom of the list.
By this time, they're usually standing in a slippery little
puddle. Going in for the kill, I walk them past one of Rome's
famous 2,000-year-old open cesspools. Then, as we open the
door to my shitty efficiency, I kiss them on the eyelids so
they don't see the roaches, making sure the first thing they
see is the strategically positioned artist's easel I bought
at some church sale. That's usually all they need to see and,
like clockwork, they fall backwards on my bed with their Birkenstocks
in the air.
I mean, they're hardly Italian women, but we have a saying
here in Europe: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk
for free?
Learn more and start dating girls
today!
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