Free The Story of X: An Erotic Tale by A. J. Molloy Page B

of Vesuvius across the bay; Capri
     is dreaming in the sea mist.
    “So,” he says, setting his empty plate to his side. “ About last night .”
    My smile is now a little broken. I’m not sure I want to have this conversation. Last
     night was amazing . But let it be what it was; let us not talk about it, not examine it, not analyze
     it, ever. Just one perfect night. One perfect night of torrid, primal, and gloriously
     heedless sex. Never examined, never questioned. Just itself.
    “Last night was perfetto ,” he says. “But it was, perhaps, too perfect.”
    “Sorry?”
    He tilts his handsome head, and asks, “You know the phrase . . . coup de foudre ?”
    My feelings flutter inside.
    “Yes. Coup de foudre . A bolt of lightning—literally.”
    He nods. I stare at him.
    Is that what he thinks this is? Just a flash of madness, and sexual passion? Is that
     what is happening to us? Something very fleeting? Which will be gone by next week?
    He seems to sense my discomfort.
    “X, I just want to know something before we go any further.”
    “Know what?”
    “Whether you are . . .” He looks away. “ Prepared . Because, if you do want to take it further, there are certain things . . .” He lends
     me his blue gaze once again. “There are certain things you should know.”
    Things I should know? Enough.
    I set down my plate.
    “Tell me, Marc, what is this great mystery ? Just tell me. I can cope. I’ve got a driver’s license. I’m all grown-up now.”
    He smiles.
    “I noticed.”
    I make like I am going to throw the pastry bag in his face. He smiles apologetically
     and raises a hand.
    “Okay, okay. I am sorry. It is just . . . very difficult. I don’t want to frighten
     you away, the very same moment I have met you. X, you are my great good news , like the poet said.” He pauses, then: “But there are aspects of my life that are
     crucial to me, aspects that, if you want to continue seeing me, you deserve to know.
     And if you cannot accept this part of my life—then it’s best we go no further. Indeed,
     we cannot go any further. For your sake and for my sake.”
    This sounds unnerving. This sounds pretty bad. I wait, silently, for him to elaborate.
     But my heart is noisy inside: beating, anxious, perturbed.
    He takes a last sip of coffee, then says, “Have you ever heard of the Mystery Religions?”
    “No, not really.” I rummage through the memories of high school history. “Something
     pre-Christian, maybe? Uh, I did modern history at school, mainly.”
    “The Mystery Religions are ancient cultic faiths, with enigmatic initiation rituals.
     They were woven into classical Mediterranean society, Greece and Rome. Some became
     very popular, like the mystery of Mithras; some remained controversial and orgiastic,
     like the mysteries of Dionysus.”
    I stare at Marc. Dionysus. Orgies. Where is this going?
    “I don’t understand.”
    Marc glances down at the quiet early-morning road. Then he says, “Do you have a couple
     of hours to spare, right now?”
    “Yes. I make my own timetable.”
    “Do you want to go to Pompeii?” He checks his watch. “We can be there before they
     open to the tourists; I know the site manager. And there is something in Pompeii that
     can explain this—explain it better than any words of mine.”
    It is impetuous and abrupt, but I am getting used to this—because this is how Marc
     behaves. He is decisive and spontaneous. And I like this; no, I love this. The Deck-Shoe Mathematician never whisked me off to Ancient Pompeii. Then again,
     the Deck-Shoe Mathematician never had anything to do with cults and orgies, either.
    Twenty minutes later we are racing through the dreary outer suburbs of Naples. Gray
     concrete apartment blocks blur past, scarred with graffiti—yet set amid rustling olive
     groves and scented lemon orchards, stepping down to the glittering sea. They are still
     lovely despite the squalor. Maybe the squalor is part of it. Love and