The Pairing(72)

I take us away through winding tunnels of holm oak to a place tucked in the shadow of the palace at the garden’s north corner. It’s quiet and empty, so far out of the way that no other tourists have bothered to find it.

“Holy shit,” Theo says as we draw close, taking off their sunglasses. “What is that?”

“The Buontalenti Grotto.”

It’s a strange, fantastical piece of architecture, its facade half pillared marble and half dripping, flowering concrete stalactites. If a villa could be swallowed whole by enchanted seaweed, or the earth could come alive and take back its sediment, it might look like this.

“I read about it once,” I say. “Francesco Medici commissioned this one.”

“No way, Bianca Cappello’s slutty boyfriend?” Theo says. “The original nepo baby?”

“The very slut,” I say, laughing. “Come on.”

I pull them through the unlatched gate and into the first chamber, where the walls are sculpted like a natural cave, spongy coral and stalagmites and flowering branches bubbling toward the vaulted ceiling. Frescos of nature flow from the open skylight into a second, deeper room with a statue of Paris and Helen in the throes.

“Did Francesco ever sneak Bianca in here to fool around?” Theo asks.

“Oh, almost definitely.”

The third and deepest room of the grotto is round, with painted birds flitting through vines and roses and irises. Its centerpiece is a marble fountain of Venus bathing, sculpted by Giambologna. Like all his women, this Venus was chiseled with pure rapture, the curves of her body fluid and sensuous. If Francesco and Bianca fucked in any of these rooms, it was here.

Theo drifts away to begin a loop around the room’s perimeter, examining the leaves on the walls.

“You know,” they say, “I’ve gotten the impression that the Florentines fuck severely.”

I move in the opposite direction, slipping past Theo near one of the mosaic niches.

“That’s my favorite thing about Renaissance art,” I say. “It’s really about sex.”

“Even when it’s about Jesus?”

“Especially when it’s about Jesus. What better excuse to hang pictures of naked men around your palazzo?” I say. “I think the Renaissance came out of Florence because of sex. Everyone was having it, or wanting it, or trying not to want it so they could be a friar, and it was soaking into everything. It’s the perfect environment for an artistic awakening. Sex is in every beautiful thing that’s ever happened, and every beautiful thing can become sex.”

Theo laughs. “You ever wonder if maybe you take sex too seriously?”

“Honestly, no, I have never wondered if I’m wrong to accept the miracle of tender humanity into my heart,” I say, only half joking.

“The fucking Kierkegaard of cock over here,” Theo replies.

We circle each other around the room, edging closer to the fountain with each pass.

“What is sex to you, then?” I ask.

“It’s . . . physical,” Theo says, eyes tracing Venus’s breasts. “It’s about being in your body, and strength, and stamina, and instinct, and, well, it’s kind of about winning.”

“You just described sports,” I point out, amused.

“Okay, fine, it’s more than that. It’s like . . . eating a great meal. Short-term pleasure. It’s fun and exciting, one of the best ways to spend an hour, maybe you try something new and find out if you like it, and one day you look back and remember how good it tasted. But it doesn’t have to be anything deeper.”

We pass each other again, face-to-face for a moment.

“Is that really what you think?”

Sweat gleams in the hollow of their throat, and I want them so much, I’d gather it on my fingers and let them watch me suck it off. I would lap it up like a dog.

“Well—” Theo says, moving, swallowing. “Maybe it’s more like cooking a good meal. Curiosity, creativity.”

“Patience.”

“Sometimes.”

“All the time.”

We’re almost to Venus, the space between us nearly closed.

“Sometimes it’s just butter and a hot pan,” Theo says, voice hushed. “Or a—a peach and a really sharp knife.”

They face me at the fountain’s pedestal, turning their back on the goddess of love.

“I don’t know,” I say. “What good is a knife if the peach isn’t ripe?”

“What is that, a poem?”

“Sure. It’s about impatience.”

“I told you—”

“You told me you would show me,” I say. Without looking away from Theo’s face, I take hold of their wrists at their sides. “So, show me.”

My grip is light enough that they could break away if they chose. I wait for them to demonstrate they want this—to lean forward, to part their lips. Then, I pull gently away.

They watch, brow pinched in confusion, as I lift one of their wrists to my mouth and deliberately, slowly press a soft kiss to the inside. For a moment, they go still, their eyes widening. And then they’re laughing and pushing forward, grasping for my cheek with their fingertips, reaching out with their other hand. Still, I don’t let them touch me.