Growing up a fan of , getting fucked à la in a medieval city was a natural bucket list item for me. So, when my rolled around and Lorenzo*, a poet I’d met through my alma mater’s graduate networking program, reached out with an invitation to meet in Florentine style, I dusted off my corset and considered my options. I never thought of myself as the kind of woman who catches a flight for sex.
But there I was, at 10 a.m. at the Madrid Barajas airport, boarding the earliest plane to Florence to meet up with a man I’d never actually seen in real life.
We’d been chatting for a while online, bonding over our mutual love of the written word, nature, and our opposing views of the quaint college town in which we’d both lived but somehow never crossed paths. “I can host you at my place,” he wrote. “Take you around the city.
Worst that can happen, you spent a few days in Florence.” While there was obvious chemistry between us, flying two hours east to meet in person could either go well or wrong. But after deliberating in my (close friends) group chat, I decided: If there’s one thing about being a single woman starting her thirties in a world where we’ve reduced romance to dick pics, one-night stands, and non-committal relationships, it’s that when adventure calls, you answer.
Of course, there was another incentive pulling me toward the city of Dante and Beatrice. Lorenzo was hot. Tall with black hair and dark, sad eyes lost in thought and prose.
He was the stereotypical male lead written by female authors, with all the red flags attached. Or, as my friend told me when she saw his picture, “Girl, you’re either going to marry this man or need five years of therapy to get over him.” Either way, I’d chosen to take my chances and was about to meet him in a few hours.
I landed in Florence that afternoon. We met up at the city center by Santa Maria Novella, and as I got off the tram, I saw him waiting for me across the street. He was even more handsome in person.
I crossed over towards him before the streetlight even had time to change. Overlooking the usual first-time awkwardness, he hugged me like we’d been doing it our entire lives. “ ” he whispered in Italian while embracing me.
He grabbed my backpack and we started walking toward his apartment just a few blocks away. We dropped off my stuff, and my private tour of Florence began. The infamous city that housed some of the greatest creative minds in human history—as well as some of the most tragic love stories of all time—was now the perfect landscape for a brief yet steamy romance.
As the sun set on the Arno, I could feel the sexual tension rising between us. After a few hours together, we no longer walked at a safe distance. Instead, our arms grazed casually, almost innocently.
We headed back to his apartment where he made me pasta pomodoro. I asked if he needed help, but he just handed me a bottle of wine and told me to pour. Jazz played in the background as he prepared the meal, licking the wooden spoon to taste the sauce as if to tease me with his tongue.
We dined casually as I tried to quell the impure thoughts blooming in my brain. But as we stood up to clear the table, they all came flooding back. We bumped into each other, dishes clattering to the floor.
My heart thumped in my chest as I waited to see what he’d do next. Taking the glasses from my hand, he pushed aside what remained on the table and mounted me on it, grabbing my face with his giant hands and kissing me passionately. Spreading my legs, he pressed himself between them, trailing his hands up my spine.
I welcomed his touch as he kissed my neck and peeled off my turtleneck bodysuit, revealing the black lace I’d been saving for this moment. My nipples hardened once exposed to the cool winter air as I leaned in to kiss his neck. He moaned softly, moving down toward my thighs and fumbling with my plaid skirt.
His hands grew impatient and with a growl of frustration, he tore the fabric of my tights instead. Lowering his head for a taste, he looked up at me, the eye contact sending shivers down my spine. After a few minutes, he rose up and lowered me further onto the table, taking off his pants and revealing a perfectly sculpted dick from his trousers.
“ I laughed. To which he replied, “We’re only just getting started.” After loosening up the legs of his kitchen table, we spent the rest of the night discovering every other corner of the house until we finally landed on his bed, where I had four (yes, ) .
If I thought my sexual appetite was big, Lorenzo’s was even greater. Despite having literally fucked all night, he woke me up at the crack of dawn, ready for more. And as tired as I was, I can’t say no to a naked breakfast.
His hunger didn’t subside for the rest of the week. Naively, I assumed this trip would be equal parts sex and tourism, a whole montage of gelato, pasta, and cathedrals scrolling past my mind. But as rain poured over Florence, we poured over each other.
In fact, the first time we came up for an outing from bed was to visit the famous Galleria dell'Accademia, where the trip took an entirely different turn. By then, we were so intertwined that our bodies were basically glued to each other. It’s the stuff every rom-com that ever made you want to travel abroad to fall in love with a perfect stranger was made of.
And as much as I promised the hopeless romantic deep inside me that this was STRICTLY business, I couldn’t help but fantasize that I was Zoe Saldaña in . We waltzed through the halls of the magnificent museum, rain pouring above, our hands lightly holding on to each other, when he stopped me in front of a plaster model of the goddess Juno in the Hall of Models. Standing behind me, he lowered his mouth to my ear and I could already feel the electricity rushing through my body.
“This one, right here,” he whispered. “She looks just like you when you’re naked. But most of all, she radiates your inner power.
” The ancient Roman goddess lay on her side, firm breasts out, chin up, soft belly exposed. It struck a different tone than the usual statues that depicted her as a warrior. The daughter of Saturn and wife of Jupiter was once considered the protector of women in all of Rome.
In all my years dating, I was used to guys complimenting my curves, my Cuban heritage of meaty thighs and a perfectly round ass. But never before had someone compared me to a goddess. And for once, whether from the newfound confidence my thirties brought me or because someone was seeing me from a new point of view, I felt like one.
Our last night together was pure romance. Another homemade dinner, followed by soft, passionate, and deeply connected sex. Laying in each other’s arms, knowing life would get in the way as soon as I set foot on the tram back to the airport and we would probably never see each other again, we both cherished the moment quietly.
The next day, as I boarded the plane back to Madrid, I looked back on the week, realizing that beyond the incredible sex and romance, something in me had shifted. Was it the inherent magic of being in Florence? The oxytocin high after being showered by poetic affection? Or was it simply the concept of , and the idea that we can always be born again? In that moment, I admitted something I’d been suppressing all along—before setting on this trip, the idea of turning 30 unsettled me. Who was I going to be in this new decade? Would I still want the same things? What did I actually want out of life now that my twenties were behind me? And above all else, was I ready to embrace it? There were more questions than answers in my mind, but taking a chance on myself—yet again—was proof that maybe this decade wasn’t about putting all the pieces together, but about living in the moment.
Perhaps this new chapter of my life was taking all the best parts of me and everything I learned in my twenties and pushing me toward that new side of myself. And maybe Lorenzo was right, Juno did represent me. A goddess that can be smart curious, bold timid, sex positive a hopeless romantic.
A woman that can stand tall in all her armor, but also lay supple in the pleasure of being herself. As the plane took off, I breathed in that newfound realization, knowing this trip was in fact, worthy. Karla Montalván is a seasoned editor, writer, and sex coach with a decade-long career.
Her work has graced the pages of , magazine, FIERCE, and mitú. Inspired by the lack of access to sexual education for Latinas, Montalván launched the podcast, where she fearlessly explores intimate topics, offering insight and empowerment to her audience..
