A Sensual Winter Visit

John lifted his gaze from the computer screen. It was snowing lightly. It was an ideal snow -- beautiful to watch, with not a bit of it sticking to his lane as it wound down the hill.

John had a glass of orange juice while making a pot of coffee. The OJ provided the energy to do 100 situps, then rotator cuff exercises with a small dumbbell, and progressively heavier weights as he did military presses and curls. He then did another 100 situps and fetched a large mug of black coffee. At about 10:30 am, he would repeat the prior sequence of exercises and be done for the morning.

The afternoon was for pushups and hiking, but the morning was for checking up on investments. Of course, in 2022 the "dismal science" of economics (as Carlyle apparently first dubbed it) was genuinely dismal. The Keystone XL Pipeline had been halted for environmental reasons, but America was then left begging for energy from nations with far worse environmental records. The southern border was open in an era of pandemic, inflation was running wild, and it was unknown how aggressive the Federal Reserve would be in raising rates. Not surprisingly given the grim situation, the stock market was in rough shape. John looked for optimism -- some sign of hope -- and found little to encourage him.

Was it some sort of existential crisis? As John pondered his portfolio, he was reminded that he had, in a sense, lost nothing because he had sold nothing. At least yet. Did hope spring eternal? Well, maybe, but he was a long way from investment capitulation. He had been told that, in times of crisis, it was helpful to look at some history book for perspective because, even if the past did not precisely repeat itself, at least it rhymed. John tried to forget about current events and take a stroll down memory lane.

As a young soldier, John had spent a number of years in USAREUR, the Army in Europe/Africa. From northern Italy and later from Kasernes in northern Bavaria, the cultural riches of western Europe were spread before him. Although soldiers are on duty 24 hours a day and "weekends" were defined as getting a Sunday off now and then, applications for leave were granted as resources and circumstances permitted. In that event, the choices were obvious -- London, Rome, Paris, Venice, and other such glittering towns.

John had been to Venice in June and everybody said he had to return in winter. An old movie was entitled "If This is Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium" and it made fun of rapid tours of Europe. It was true that there was so much to take in that a slower pace was better. So John decided to spend a week in Venice in January, to return and see some of the sights at a slower pace, and clear his mind of all the recent negativity.

As fate would have it, a graduate student from Switzerland was in Venice on a brief break from her scholarly labors. Gisella, a slender student of 29, had come to Venice seeking solitude and rest. She sat apart from the others on the vaporetti, and had begun walking in the early morning and at dusk so as not to fall into conversation with other tourists. She gazed at Byzantine mosaics in the pale light and spoke only to the sleepy vendors who sold her cappucino. Venice had all the mystery and silence she had imagined.

Gisella glanced down her shapely legs and wondered if her high heels were the most practical shoe choice for wandering the streets of Venice. She knew they were not, but also liked how they set off her long, sleek legs. With delicate steps, she traversed the uneven stones of Campo Santa Margherita and made her way toward St. Mark's Square, resolving to switch the following day to hiking boots. Because of the season, the corners were empty of gelaterias.

In a move that, had she been anyone else, would been construed as evidence of reckless excess, Gisella had booked a room at the Hotel Danieli. Though Murano glass chandeliers and ceiling frescoes placed the hotel at the top of the luxury hotel hierarchy, she felt she had been right to splurge. Had she settled for a cheaper hotel, she would not have had the experience of Danieli's décor. She wanted to remember everything.

In the Alps where she lived, stoves and insulation made the cold tolerable. In Venice, fewer adjustments had been made to combat the relatively short winter. She found the palaces drafty and the floors icy. It seemed the only places Gisella could get warm were cafes at night. Often, shivering in the wind from the Grand Canal, she ducked in for a minute. She had begun to think having a companion might be preferable to both walking alone and sleeping alone, but no one had presented himself since she arrived.

Perhaps men were intimidated by her icy demeanor? Or her resemblance to the late Ava Gardner? Or did they simply sense her desire for solitude? She wasn't certain. But she was certain a hot cup of coffee was in order.

John stopped on the Bridge of Sighs. Contino's bridge over the Rio di Palazzo was erected in the year 1600 to connect the Doge's prisons, or Prigioni, with the inquisitor's rooms in the main palace. The name "Bridge of Sighs" was invented in the 19th Century, when Lord Byron helped to popularize the belief that the bridge's name was inspired by the sighs of condemned prisoners as they were led through it to the executioner. The days of inquisitions and summary executions were over by the time the bridge was built, and the cells under the palace roof were occupied by small-time criminals. However, when reality conflicts with the legend, print the legend as they said in the old movie "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."

John wanted to forget the global economy, stroll the streets of Venice, and lose himself in its history. He found the weather soothing, and the cold kept the tourists away. He found himself walking, lost in thought, hands jammed in the pockets of his cashmere topcoat. As he pondered, he was not really thinking of Shelley's "Stanzas Written in Dejection, Near Naples." Perhaps he would be able to find some ember of hope. After all, his paper loss could be regained with a few good months and his situation was vastly superior to people who had real problems such as the poverty in Africa and Asia. After all, he had the financial ability to stay at the Danieli and not blink at the cost.

As he walked, and the wind whipped his hair into disarray, he recalled that old movie about a last tango in Paris. Were his market concerns akin to that? No, they were not. Alexander Pope, Jonathan Swift, and Benjamin Disraeli were all famous. History had taken note of their abilities. Yet Pope, Swift, and Disraeli had speculated on stocks and lost. Even Newton had gambled and lost.

After the astronomer Eddington used the 1919 eclipse to measure the position of Mercury, he informed the general newspaper-reading public that Einstein's General Theory of Relativity was correct. Einstein with his wild hair became what the public thought of as they imagined a scientific genius. Even Einstein dabbled in the stock market, and was unable to become rich as a consequence of investing.

If such towering intellects had trouble tackling what Ben Graham called "Mr. Market" in his 1949 book The Intelligent Investor, why should John feel bad? Perhaps, as Mill suggested in Principles of Political Economy, the seeds of each boom were sown during the preceding crisis? Rescued somewhat by this perspective, John paused while passing a shop window. He noticed a photo of a svelte model wearing a lace bra, garter belt, and thong. As he gazed, he felt a familiar surge of lust overtake any investment concerns.

Lust? He had to confess to that. In recent years, the National Cancer Institute reported that men who had more than 21 ejaculations per month were at considerably lower prostate cancer risk than men who only had 4 or 5. Of course, this merely gave those like John another rationale for the theory -- not original to him -- that "An orgasm per day keeps the doctor away." And, calculating a margin of safety, John preferred more.

John paused. Had animal instinct begun to rescue him from situational depression? These were his thoughts as he arrived at the Danieli, a masterfully restored 14th Century palace. It was steps away from the Piazza San Marco and its Basilica. The Danieli was a gothic landmark with pink marble and stained glass.

In the lobby, with its soaring open space, John turned. Jet-lagged, he was not yet sleepy. Despite the darkness, despite the drizzle which had commenced, perhaps he would stroll to Florian's, the celebrated cafe under the arcades of the Procuratie Nuove in St. Mark's. Opened under another name, it was a big success and became one of the most famous coffee shops of the 1700s.

Since its opening, Florian's had been frequented by an illustrious clientele. Nobles, ambassadors, and merchants patronized it. Because it was then the only coffee shop to admit women, Casanova went there in quest of new female companions. John's motive was simple. He wanted a clean, well-lighted place, as Hemingway said, but mainly to sip a cup of coffee and contemplate his destiny.

As Gisella sat at her small table, warming her hands on a coffee cup, she noticed a man writing energetically on a piece of yellow legal paper. His hair was windblown, and fell slightly over the collar of a topcoat. Was it cashmere or lambswool? She glanced at his shoes. Black wingtips, and utterly boring. Perhaps a local businessman? Or perhaps he followed the vanishing custom of dressing for first class on a flight? He had stopped writing and gone to browse at the newspaper and magazine stand.

But what had he been writing? The Great American Novel? But perhaps he wasn't even American? He didn't seem sufficiently pale to be from the UK. Perhaps he was writing a billet-doux? She rose, took a step, and looked at it. It was in English:

"...the ideas of economists and political philosophers, both when they are right and when they are wrong, are more powerful than is commonly understood. Indeed, the world is ruled by little else. Practical men, who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influences, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist. Madmen in authority...are distilling their frenzy from some academic scribbler of a few years back."

Then, she saw, he had also written: "Check source." Not for nothing had Gisella studied at the university in Zurich. Impishly, she picked up his pen and wrote "Keynes" on the paper.

She turned to slip away to her table and bumped into him. In reflex, she reached out to steady herself and caught his arm. Cashmere. Unbeknownst to her, he had returned and watched, with no little amusement, as she read his note. Her face flushed red. She looked up, prepared to offer an apology, and saw his eyes crinkling. He was grinning.

She was relieved. Instead of a feeling like a show-off, she felt playful. He didn't seem to be a stuffed shirt. In the carnival that was Venice, she had not expected to run across a kindred spirit, but she met his amused expression with a challenging gaze that simply enhanced her resemblance to sultry Ava Gardner.

"Yes, it is Keynes," he said. "Though I wasn't anticipating any particular response to my notes." Spurred by mischief, she challenged him. "I'll bet you don't know with what literary group Keynes was associated." "Bloomsbury," he said calmly.

She was drawn to his cashmere-clad arm, which, she noticed, she was still clutching. He seemed in no hurry to shake her off his arm. With his free one, he gathered up his papers and made room for her to sit down.

Though both had made the journey to Venice seeking solitude, Gisella and John found over coffee a sudden companionship. By the time they had covered Keynes and the rest of the Bloomsbury Group, the cafe was deserted and the drizzle had stopped, but the caffeine had invigorated both and they decided to walk.

As they left the cafe, the two wandered, crossing over bridges from which they could see empty gondolas, stripped of their cushions. The streets had a slightly melancholy air, and Gisella suddenly wanted the brightness of the hotel. But to go back to her room would signal the end of John's company and she was reluctant to give that up. When a cold wind swept over the bridge, she shivered. John moved closer, which made her shiver again, not from the cold, but from the powerfully sensuous impulse she felt. She felt an urge to open his coat and wrap it around herself.

Without considering the consequences, she stepped close to him, facing him, so close the plumes of their breath mingled in the air. Suddenly, she felt his warm breath against her neck, and his lips on her earlobe, teasing. The contrast of the two sensations, the cold wind and his warm lips, excited her, and she felt her nipples harden. The wintry weather had dictated bulky clothing, but she yearned for the feel of her bare skin against his. She thought of the many layers between them as she fantasized what might happen.

While walking to Florian's, John had been thinking that stock speculation was at first a sentiment, a taste, which passed then into a habit, and grew into a passion -- a master passion which swallowed up other emotions. But now, almost against his will, he found his lips lowering to Gisella's neck, and suddenly he had no interest in the World Economic Forum in Davos.

Even in the cold air, John felt as if he were burning. When they had first met, she had unconsciously brushed back her hair and touched her neck. It was an innocent gesture, but for some unknown reason a salacious image flitted through his mind. Given the demands of social courtesy, he sought to shake the image and enjoy a pleasant, unexpected conversation. But every rational thought was defeated by desire.

As they had talked in the restaurant, Gisella had been alarmed as well. As he sipped coffee, suddenly she imagined his tongue teasing across her tummy. She had no idea as to the origin of such a bold, graphic notion. Perhaps it was the slow seduction of Venice?

She noticed his hand and wondered if he would gently caress her hip with that hand as she writhed to orgasm in the cowgirl position. Even in the cold, he could detect the soft, humid odor of the canal and the perfume on her neck. He realized that he had leaned against a stone wall. Then he bent down, swept aside her coat, and began kissing her left breast through her layers of clothing.

As John began contemplating how much he liked kissing puffy nipples, he grasped for anything remotely resembling logic and said: "My hotel?" She nodded assent. As they approached it, she smiled widely, realizing that they were both at the same place. Perhaps fate was in control?

She found it easier not to talk. They had covered enough in the cafe for her to guess that this encounter was a Venice moment. She simply wanted to remove his topcoat, unbutton his shirt, and see what transpired. They arrived at the hotel, climbed the magnificent staircase, and entered his room in silence. She closed the door and began unbuttoning.

When his lips met hers, any sense of restraint began to vanish. She was wearing a bra and thong, and he thought of the display in the shop window. He inhaled, eased off the chair, and began kissing the decorative banding at the top of the stockings. Then the tops of the stockings, where they turned to soft, taut thigh. She gasped, moving slightly, as John made a trail of kisses around the tops of her stockings.

She felt a bit unsteady as he began to kiss the firm, tan insides of her thighs above the stockings, but she balanced precariously. Then the sensations moved, as he kissed the outsides of her thighs above the stockings. He rubbed his lips lightly on the inside of her thighs, and his action sent another shiver through her. There was an intake of breath as his kisses began to glide over her tummy, framed nicely by the top of her thong. She had trouble holding still as tiny kisses fell on the little decorations on the front of her thong.

She shivered as his lips, gentle but insistent, made contact with her left hip, which was exposed by her thong. Then she moaned as his kisses became tiny nibbles. Her hips seemed to be moving involuntarily. The little kisses returned to the tiny bit of thong fabric.

John felt a rush of cold air and realized that he had left the window slightly opened over the radiator. As he kissed the faint thong tan lines on her hips, he made a mental note to buy her a slender strand of anal beads and see how they looked as she writhed to orgasm. But that was a task for another day, and perhaps their time in Venice would be too brief to buy her such toys?

She arched upward against him, and his hand explored the elastic of the thong, slipping his fingers underneath where he found her warm and waiting. Just as she thought she could stand it no more, he withdrew his fingers and stroked her on the outside of the silk and she felt she would explode. A pulsating heat grew. When he touched her bare skin again, she began to quiver, and then the heat of her rapid orgasm spread through her body, leaving her shaken and breathless.

But the night was young. She felt his hands, one on each hip. She writhed as his hands, large and strong, caressed her hips. When his hands moved to the side-ties of the thong, she elevated her back to assist in the removal of the thong. She moved sinuously on the bed, face-down, fully exposed, and John saw that the serious graduate student was also devoted to Full Brazilian Waxing. Gisella moaned as his tongue moved, realizing she was now anticipating her second orgasm.

He moved and she realized that she was sitting astride him. His hands were caressing her hips, and she was moving slowly on his erection, her eyes partly closed, teeth clenched. He reached up and began to tease her right nipple, fingers lightly flicking it. The combination of sensations was exquisite.

The evening in Venice seemed to be turning into a sensual exchange.