Ever seen one of Anthony Hopkins' lesser known movies called 'Titus'? If so you might have noticed a strange construction on the skyline slightly reminiscent of Swiss cheese. It's not part of a film set but a building in EUR, the Mussolini sector of Rome. We call it the square Colosseum.

Just round the corner from where 'Titus' was made is a snazzy little restaurant with a lot of snazzy tight ass waiters. You might like to check it out some time. You can't miss it as it's covered in beautiful bougainvillea blossom. It's the kind of place where you look at a guy's buns and just know that they're ready for the oven. And you can tell from the way the waiters whip things off your table, just what they'd be like whipping the cream out of your cock. Know what I mean?

Waiters are wonderful. They're the same the world over. Serving food and whetting your appetite while they do it. But there's something special about the Italians. They're so easy going and have a great sense of humour. No need to fear they're going to tip a bowl of hot soup in your lap when you tell them that what you fancy isn't on the menu. They'll also flirt with your wife or your girlfriend and only have eyes for you. It's very exhilarating. And appetizing. And, just like the food itself, there's a huge variety of dishy dishes to choose from.

I'm going to tell you about a three-course meal I had with one of them. His name was Raimondo but he liked me to call him Raymond. His dream was to go to L.A. some day and from the extra attention he always gave me I got the idea he seemed to think I might be the meal ticket he was looking for. Our conversations tended to be a bit monosyllabic at first as my Italian wasn't so hot and he hardly spoke English although he was hot in other ways. Really hot. He was from southern Italy and they fairly sizzle down there.

He first sparked me off when I was celebrating someone's birthday with a group of friends. Something about the way he got the cork out of the champagne bottle really blew my mind. The steady pressure in his thumbs, his firm grasp on the neck and the look of quiet determination on his face popped my cork immediately. Not to mention the deft way he filled each glass to the brim without spilling a drop. I don't know how it is with you but it's the little things that turn me on. And off too. Immaculate fingernails, captivating smiles, wrist-hairs bristling round a watch, shower water dripping from a bare butt, neckties with large knots. And particularly underwear. Not that I'm a fetishist or anything like that but I can go off a guy in ten seconds flat if I don't like the colour of his Calvins. I mean underwear is extremely important. It's in-dick-ative of a guy's potential.

Raymond didn't seem to be wearing any underwear. At least I couldn't see any sign of it under his tight pants as he bent over to pour the champagne. Couldn't see any sign of dick potential round the front either. In fact I wondered where he kept it all. Such were my sordid thoughts the night that he served us champagne. I had to content myself with the muscles he displayed in his upper arms as he arrived carrying two or three dishes at once and the prominent ones on his chest that threatened to pop the buttons of his shirt. Oh to be a button on that shirt I found myself wishing.

You might say I had the hots for him from the word go. And they got hotter as time went by. I ate out a lot over the next few weeks and made a point of going by myself. He was always pleased to see me although that could just have been part of his professional profile. He also kept a table for me in a secluded corner of the restaurant. Other waiters hovered over me from time to time but he soon made it clear that I was his property. My dick swelled with pride at this. I was obviously a special customer and he wanted me to himself. Either that or the generous tips I usually left. I had no illusions. It was all part of the game we were playing. I wanted him and knew that sooner or later I would get him. The problem was how.

The opportunity arose when I got there particularly early one evening. As usual I went to the restroom to wash my hands before eating. He was coming out of the door marked Staff Only. Our eyes met. That was enough. He stepped back inside the swing door and waited for me to join him. I felt like a flummoxed teenager. Nobody had done that to me since the time I met a horny hunk of a guy in the toilet of our local cinema.

I didn't hesitate. I followed him. Without a word he pulled me towards him. I could feel the hardness of his dick against mine as he kissed me. It only lasted a few seconds but the combined heat of that kiss and his dick sure as hell broke the ice. He slipped out of the door, back to the restaurant and after making sure the coast was clear beckoned me to follow.

My legs were shaking and my dick was creaming my pants as I went to the Gents to wash my hands. The whole thing had lasted a little under a minute but it seemed that an eternity of possibilities had opened its portals for me. The softness of his mouth and the hardness of his dick had spoken volumes. I knew now that the hunger was mutual.

I waited for him to come to my table. He greeted me with a twinkle in his eye, and in his voice, as he offered me the chef's special. Cannelloni. The most phallic food in Italy, if not the world.

I said I wanted something a little more meaty and rare like a filet steak.

I don't know if he understood but he laughed nonetheless and my dick wept a little pre-cum at the sight of his moist lips. I could still feel them on mine. His kiss had been so gentle. Like a pastry cook moistening pastry with a soft brush. He hadn't thrust his tongue down my throat as I'd half expected him to, nor crudely grasped my dick. Everything had been so five-star delicate.

I had an excellent meal and a bottle of vintage wine. He handed me my change in a small folder. At first I was going to leave everything as a tip but fortunately I looked inside the folder because he'd left his mobile phone number. I presumed he finished around mid-night but impatiently called before ten. He was brief and to the point. "Meet me in front of the Gruviera," he said in Italian.

He didn't specify the time and I didn't have anything better to do so I waited there in my car for nearly two hours. I soon realised that the square Colosseum was anything but square. In fact it was a famous cruising area and I could have fucked or been fucked ten times over by the time he arrived. Another thing for you to check out when you come over here. Mind you it's mostly rent of course. The Anthony Hopkins movie didn't show that part of Roman life.

Raymond was very apologetic for keeping me waiting 'in such a place.' Strange but my Italian was already improving because I understood what he said. He gave me another pastry-cook kiss and put his hot hand on my inside leg as I drove him home. This made my dick so stiff I could have changed gear with it. Once again my dick wept. This time with frustration because he didn't actually touch it. I felt myself thinking, "I hope he's not going to be this much of a gentleman all night." He wasn't. As soon as we were in my apartment he relaxed and let go. Let rip and let fly would be nearer the mark. The pastry cook's brush turned into the equivalent of a rolling pin as he kissed me full and hard on and in the mouth.

I gave him as good as I got and wondered, if his tongue was a taste of things to cum, just what his dick was going to be like. His nipples were already spearing me through his shirt so I knew I wasn't going to be disappointed. I undid his tie and pushed his shirt away to take its place wrapped tightly against him. Then all five-star refinement flew out of the window as we grappled and tore each other's clothes off.

I found my fingers struggling with the elastic of his jock strap and suddenly realized how he'd managed to 'keep it all in.' And man, it came leaping out like a frisky puppy that's been kept in its kennel for too long. Or should I say a hot dog straight from the griddle? Hot sausage would be more like it. It was much bigger than I'd expected and very appetizing. My mouth and my dick watered.

Soon my horny hunk of a waiter was giving me room service and I was getting a full platter of ham, sausage and eggs. His pecs were jam packed with meat, his nipples rich and juicy as gooseberries and hard-boiled was the only word to describe his male ovaries. As for his dick. Well, all I can say is that it was enough to stop me from going hungry for a week. Even if, to continue the waiter-cum-food imagery, I was afraid I'd bitten off slightly more than I could chew.

By the way, there's one thing to be said for not speaking someone's language. You don't waste time with small talk. You just get right down to the nitty gritty. Or in Raymond's case, the nutty gutty! And we made up for lost time feeding from each other's naked bodies. In fact we were so busy sucking and fucking that I almost didn't have time to appreciate the rest of his anatomy. Almost I say. I certainly grew to appreciate his dick which, even as I write this, I can still feel growing inside of me. I also quickly appreciated his beautiful butt which seemed to burst into flower every time I touched it. Which was often. And I was particularly partial to the hefty, heaving hummocks that were his pecs. I hung on to them with slippery fingers as I sat bareback on his dick and rode him over the hills and far away. Or was he riding me?

Somehow or other I'd packed all that succulent meat inside me and was feeling for all the world like Little Miss Muffet sitting on her proverbial tuffet. I don't really know what a tuffet is but after my experience with Raymond I think I've got the general idea. His humdinger of a dong sent me chiming back to my childhood when we used to make up dirty ditties out of nursery rhymes such as "Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, her knickers all tattered and torn. It wasn't the spider that sat down beside her but Little Boy Blue with the horn."

And Little Boy Raymond certainly knew how to blow a mean tune on his horn. He also made sure that Barringer Muffet got plenty of curds and whey too.

Words are of course sadly inadequate to describe sexual sensations. Especially as mixed images and mixed up metaphors go flashing fast forward through your head when you have an XXL dick inside you thrashing and threshing your horny ass towards harvest time.

Paradoxically, I've never felt a sensation quite as sweet as the perfect peace I felt after Raymond's combine harvester had plowed its way through the many furrows of fear my uptight ass had been building up over the years.

Fears of being called a faggot if I let someone fuck me. Fears of burst blood vessels. Fears of insufferable pain. Fears of getting to like it too much and becoming a butt slut.

Now he was peeling layer after sensual layer off my reticent rectum like Beulah peeling an overripe grape.

Of course at the beginning it was all uphill work. I hadn't pre-planned being fucked by Raymond so my love hole took quite a bit of coaxing before it relaxed enough for him to get the mushroom head of his dick inside me. But the tingle of his tongue, which went further than other tongues had ever ventured, together with a touch or two of lube at the tip of one of his horny fingers, was enough for my ass to work up a ravenous appetite. Naturally it hurt like hell but what was initially mere misery became sheer fucking heaven as I felt him take the plunge.

He shattered my sphincter with a pumping violence that set off a charge deep down in my being. A charge that detonated like a time bomb. My buttocks opened like the drawbridge of a once impregnable castle. I wanted him to lay siege to my ramparts and crumble all my defences with his mighty cannon until my ass became a mushy moat of molten marshmallow sucking up and eventually swallowing his monster dong.

"Penetrate my pucker you fucker!" I screamed uncharacteristically. But as I said earlier, I was experiencing sensations I'd never felt before.

Maybe he didn't fully understand my idiomatic English but he sure got the anal gist of it and growled, "Ti spacco il culo!" (I'll bust your ass) between his teeth as he made a washroom out of my ear and a bidet out of my butt.

My head was swimming and the earth veritably moved for me as he drilled his divine derrick of a dick deep into my once impenetrable buttress, his fleshy cannon balls slapping noisily against mine.

I heard distant sounds of the ocean as ten inches of potent, lube-covered man flesh slushed and sloshed in and out of my churning, burning, regurgitating love hole. Gouging a pathway to paradise.

"Fuck me!" I snarled at him. "Fuck me you gorgeous mother fucker!!"

These potentially offensive words spurred him to even greater heights. He laid on the pressure and built up a slot-searing, ass-ripping rhythm that sent my senses sailing through time and space. In fact he fucked me right back to my childhood and tore Little Miss Muffet's tuffet to shreds. She screamed with delight and morphed with the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf as his dick made its imprint on the erotic pages of my ass with a never ending fuck-filled fairy story.

He had absolutely no need of words to communicate to me what it means living in the eternal now but I never wanted him to run out of body language.

I caught a glimpse of us in the wall mirror. I saw his butt pump. I saw his abs working overtime. I saw his bulging biceps and my bulging butt. And just before I left planet earth, I saw my bulging eyes and drooling mouth. The last thing I remember thinking as I soared into blissful oblivion was, "Is this what paradise looks like?"

I was about to see the stars when his manly grunts brought me down to earth. I felt torrents of curdling cum come gushing out of me like hot lava. Slipping, spitting and hissing into a sexual sea. See what I mean about mixed metaphors!

As I came in happy profusion, Raymond continued threatening to bust my already broken butt and whipped himself up into a veritable froth chanting, "Ti spacco il culo! Ti spacco il culo!" until he lunged and plunged no more and his copious cum mingled with mine and we collapsed sticky and satisfied into the hot soggy hog-bog we had created together.

We wallowed in our wantonness and then licked each other's torrid troughs ravenously clean. It was great. Very horny and very satiating. In fact you might well say we made a pig's trotter out of each other and wolfed it all down. Oink, dolce vita, oink!

Even so, by the time we'd finished I'd worked up quite an appetite again and if Raymond's English had been a teeny weeny bit better I would have said, "What's for seconds?!" and we could have gone wee, wee, wee all the way home for a bit of roast beef.

But that's another story.